


The Bone Eater

by metarachel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bottom Castiel, Bottom Dean, Canon Compliant, Castiel Whump, Dean Whump, Forced Orgasm, Human Castiel, Hurt Castiel, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Manhandling, Monsters, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Touching, Overstimulation, Painful Sex, Possessive Behavior, Prisoner Castiel, Prisoner Dean, Rough Sex, Season/Series 09, Set somewhere between Bad Boys and Holy Terror, Size Kink, Torture, Violent Sex, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-14 07:00:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 40
Words: 97,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9167437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metarachel/pseuds/metarachel
Summary: When Dean wakes in a strange prison cell, he quickly realizes he's become another victim of the mystery monster he and Sam have been hunting: a creature who sucks the marrow right out of people's bones. There are years--sometimes decades--between the killings, and no connection between them but men who were big, strong, and healthy when they disappeared.Dean learns right up close and personal why the monster picks who he picks. Unfortunately, stuck behind bars, consistently outmatched, and growing weaker by the day, he's having a tough time putting that information to good use. But Cas can't hear his prayers anymore (and doesn't owe him shit anyway, the way he left the guy), and Zeke might or might not have his ears on (and might or might not let Sam do anything about it even if he did), and Dean ain't no damsel in distress besides. He's gonna get out of there no matter what it takes, and he's damn well gonna make sure this monster never hurts anyone again--especially not the guy he finally finds the courage to admit he loves.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> New fic! I'll be posting at least two chapters a week. The noncon doesn't happen until several chapters in, and I'll label those chapters at the top in case you want to read the story but not that particular kind of violence. 
> 
> ...And yes, clearly I have a thing about Dean and prisons ;-p

Dean woke up in a dim jail cell with a pounding headache.

He . . . definitely did not remember being arrested. And he was pretty damn sure he hadn’t drunk enough to get thrown in the local tank. Not while he was working a job. He might be stupid and reckless and lonely and guilty and sad (and a little more painfully honest inside his own head than he wanted to be right now), but he wasn’t careless. At least, not like that, anyway.

He sat up slowly, with a groan. Realized he was dizzy, but not in a hungover or concussed sort of way, and also that the bed he was sitting on was way too nice to be in a drunk tank.

Plus there was the fact that he was alone in a cell far too big to be a drunk tank, and the cell next to him was empty also, and—here was the real kicker—there was some kind of . . . steel operating table, complete with those weird adjustable arm wings and _way_ too many leather restraints, bolted to the floor in the center of both cells.

There was also a table and two chairs and a shelf and a little toilet/sink/shower nook in each cell, but Dean was having a hard time focusing on those what with the _frigging operating tables_.

“Please be a weird drunk tank,” he murmured as he stood from the bed—not a flimsy cot but an actual full-sized bed on a sturdy steel frame (also bolted to the floor). The world tilted a little, but not as much as when he’d first sat. Whatever he’d been drugged with, it must be wearing off.

But not fast enough, because it took him far too long to realize he was dressed in scrubs. No underwear, either; just a thin pair of drawstring pants and a thin v-neck short-sleeved top in a hideous shade of blue-green. And those weird hospital socks with the grippies on the bottom.

_What. The. Fuck._

This . . . didn’t look like any hospital he actually wanted to be in. He wasn’t quite steady on his feet yet, but a sense of dread was growing heavy in his stomach, so he set out to walk the perimeter of his cell, moving slowly and taking in every detail he could.

The space was big for a cell--about fifteen by twenty. The bars were as solid as any jail’s, and reached all the way from floor to ceiling, though the whole room smelled faintly of bleach rather than the piss and vomit of a usual jail. The cell door had a digital keypad on both the inside and the outside, but also a manual lock on the outside, and while he could reach around to feel it—and maybe even to pick it—he’d found nothing to pick it _with_. Plus, the cameras mounted in every corner of the room the two cells were in would no doubt detect any attempt at escape.

The question was: was someone on the other end of those cameras? Well, only one way to find out.

Dean turned to face the nearest camera, stared right at it, and shouted, “Hey, Annie Wilkes! Where the fuck am I? What am I doing here? And _please_ don’t tell me you’re my biggest fan, okay, cos that’s just sad and creepy.”

For a moment nothing happened, and Dean figured he’d take advantage of the quiet to start tossing the place in earnest, but then the dim lights went full intensity. He squinted against what he was pretty sure were special daylight bulbs you used to grow pot indoors, given how natural and bright the light was. It bounced pleasantly off the sky blue walls, the beige ceiling and floor, and Dean was surprised by the depth of his hatred for it—prisons weren’t supposed to be pretty or soothing, weren’t supposed to pretend they were something other than a locked cage.

“Why don’t you sit down, Dean?”

The voice—male, as deep as his—had come over a set of tiny speakers mounted behind the cameras, as far as Dean could tell.

“Why don’t you suck my balls?”

“If that’s what you want,” the voice said, all earnest like it just wanted to make Dean happy.

Ugh. “What I want is for you to come down here so I can kick your ass.”

A low chuckle, cool and easygoing. “I know you’re probably used to being the toughest guy in the room, if all those scars and muscles are any indication, but I think I may surprise you.” Oh, _gross_. No idea why it hadn’t occurred to Dean before, but this guy had _undressed_ him. Seen him naked. “I’ll be down in a moment.”

As far as Dean could tell, there was only one door into the room his cell was in—and no, it didn’t escape his notice that both the knob and the hinges were hidden out of reach on the other side of it, nothing on this side but a digital keypad like the one on his cell—so he went to wait at the bars nearest that door, crossing his arms and looking as badass as he reasonably could in hospital scrubs.

Because either this guy was the mystery marrow-eating monster they were in town hunting, or he was a creeper who’d somehow roofied Dean at the bar last night despite the very thorough precautions Dean always took against just that possibility. And either way, showing weakness was a bad idea.

About thirty seconds later, Dean heard shuffling on the other side of the door, then the whirring of an electronic lock. The door swung open, and in stepped . . . Well, no one he’d ever seen before, that was for sure, because he would’ve remembered a dude who dressed like an awkward professor and looked like Sammy’s body-twin. Six-five at least, and ripped beneath that boxy suit. Olive skin and shaggy dark hair and hazel eyes that looked way too kind to belong to a guy who kidnapped people for funsies. Especially since this dude must get _all_ the ladies even with the terrible fashion sense, so what was he doing sneaking off with unwilling men?

Dean must’ve been staring a little too long, because the guy smiled and dipped his head in a slow nod and said, “Hello, Dean. My name is Alexio.”

“Uh huh. Tell you what, you let me out of this cage, I won’t call you A-hole for short.”

A-hole snorted a laugh. “As clever and feisty as you are strong and beautiful. I see I’ve made an excellent choice.”

Okay, Dean’s skin totally did _not_ crawl at that. Surely he’d been hit on by creepier creeps than this creep, even if he couldn’t think of any specific examples right now.

He stood straighter, squared his shoulders, let his arms hang loose at his sides. “So clearly I’m way outta your league. How about you let me out of here and maybe I’ll give you a pity wank on the way out, huh?”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Dean.”

A-hole crossed from the door to the cage wall in three easy steps. Dean had to fight the urge to back away—for all that this guy screamed charm, he also screamed danger. But if he got close enough, maybe Dean could grab him through the bars, slam him unconscious . . .

He didn’t get close enough. Stopped just out of arms’ reach, a small knowing smile on his face, and said, “Tell me, Dean. Do you believe in monsters?”

 _Hah._ “Like the Jeffry Dahmer kind, or the _I am Zuul_ kind?”

“ _Real_ monsters, Dean. Ghosts, vampires, sirens. And so on.”

He seemed sincere about his question, which probably meant two things: One, this guy _was_ their marrow-eating mystery monster. And two, he didn’t realize Dean was a hunter.

Definitely no reason to educate him just yet. Maybe A-hole would underestimate him.

“Uh.” Dean blinked, blinked again, like the guy was crazy. “. . . No?”

A-hole nodded. “I get it, Dean. You’re a private investigator.” Well, that’d been his pretext at the bar last night, anyway. Small towns like this were always more friendly to a blue-collar guy trying to earn an honest buck than to a badge. “You believe in facts, in evidence, in what you can see. My kind and others like me . . . we keep to the shadows more often than not. It’s . . . safer that way.”

Dean folded his arms across his chest again, shifted his weight onto one leg. “Uh huh. And just what _kind_ , exactly, are you claiming to be?” Dean moved one arm just enough to wave sarcastically at A-hole. “Aside from, you know, creepy kidnapper.”

“I think I’d prefer to show you. If you’d be so kind, Dean, please remove your scrubs and lie down on the table.”

Dean scoffed. Was he _joking_? “Well, at least you’re a _polite_ psycho monster. But ain’t no way you’re getting into my pants, A-hole.”

A-hole raised an eyebrow. “I already have, Dean. How do you think you got into those clothes?”

“Listen, buddy. You want me on that table, you’re gonna have to come in here and put me there yourself.” Dean dropped his arms, flexed his hands into fists. “And I’d sure like to see you fucking try.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A super-fast update because I'm plowing through the back half of this already and all you lovely folks leaving comments and kudos deserve more :D

A-hole just shrugged and started keying in the code to the cage door.

Dean debated rushing the guy, but he was too damn big to overpower by brute force. Still, he couldn’t allow the door to close behind A-hole because it needed a key code to open on this side too, and if he knocked the guy unconscious or dead--or even if he didn’t but couldn’t convince the guy to share with the class--he didn’t want to get stuck in here.

A-hole didn’t seem the least bit concerned when Dean moved next to the door, close enough to slam it on him as he came through. Which, no lie, worried Dean. Anyone  _ that  _ confident was either dangerously stupid or incredibly well trained.

Yeah, well, so was Dean--pick either, you wouldn’t be wrong. He could do this. He stood loose and ready as the lock snicked and the door swung open. A-hole filled the entire doorway, so there’d be no darting past him, but a toddler could work with a target  _ that  _ big.

A-hole didn’t even bother to put a hand up as Dean plowed a fist into his solar plexus. 

Unfortunately, he didn’t really seem to feel it much, either. Dean recalibrated mid-swing to aim his next one at the throat, and  _ that  _ got A-hole’s attention; he just sort of . . . leaned out of the way and left Dean overextending without a target to hit. Dean used the momentum to spin around and elbow A-hole in the face with his other arm, but he never got that far. Feet swept his own out from under him, and he landed hard on the tiled floor. 

A-hole was on him before he could scrabble back or jump to his feet. He grabbed Dean by a wrist and an ankle, hauled him up and spun him around like they were couples skating and Dean was the girl. Dean flailed, struggled, but couldn’t reach A-hole with his other foot or fist or even make the guy drop him. A second later, he was being slammed down bodily onto the table. 

Things faded for a bit after that--he’d hit his head, and all the air had left his lungs and refused to come back, and everything fucking hurt. When he finally managed to gasp in a breath and pry his eyes open, he realized his chest still felt so damn heavy because A-hole was  _ sitting on him _ , and he couldn’t move his hands because they’d been strapped to the arm-wings of the table.

“Are you done now?” A-hole asked, and the fucker had the nerve to not even be the slightest bit winded. He scooted down Dean’s body, tightened a strap across his chest and another across his hips. Didn’t wait for Dean to answer--not that Dean knew what to say--before climbing off him to secure his legs with a strap around his thighs and cuffs around both ankles. This was six-point restraints on steroids, and Dean was  _ not panicking _ .

“Have you ever heard the legend of the minotaur, Dean?” A-hole asked as he grabbed the hem of Dean’s scrub top in both hands and ripped it like tissue paper. He had to work a bit around the bindings, but he had Dean’s entire upper half bared in maybe five seconds.

“Don’t even need scissors to undress a guy strapped to a table? Now that’s just showing off.”

A-hole smiled, genuinely sweet like Dean had paid him a compliment, like he wasn’t fucking force-stripping a very unwilling participant. “I do try to blend in outside my own home, but I see no reason to hide myself here. I’ll show you my real face, someday, if you’d like.” He moved down to Dean’s feet, started ripping up the seam of the left leg. “Anyway, as I was saying. The legend of the minotaur gets quite a lot wrong--as most legends do, of course--but it wasn’t  _ all  _ wrong. We  _ are  _ real. My kind were trained to serve as honor guard to the King of Crete himself, the great--and treacherous--Minos.”

“Sure you were,” Dean said, trying very hard to ignore how A-hole was now working on the second leg of his pants while simultaneously racking his brains for even the slightest bit of lore on the fucking  _ minotaur  _ he might’ve picked up along the way.

Strike-out on both counts.

“He betrayed us, as kings do. But in his ‘kindness,’ he kept us well fed for some time. Eventually my people escaped the labyrinth and went into hiding across Europe.” He paused to yank the remnants of the scrub pants out from under Dean, who was now completely naked and  _ still not panicking _ . “Long story short, hunters found us all in time. They slaughtered my family a century ago. I fled to the new world and made a life here. I’m . . . much more careful than we used to be back home.”

“Uh huh. And being careful involves kidnapping and murder? It was you, wasn’t it, who dumped Jimmy Alvarez’s body in Ithica.”

A-hole’s face went so dark so fast that for once Dean wished he hadn’t opened his mouth. He couldn’t protect himself tied up like this, and he couldn’t escape if A-hole broke every bone in his body.

But A-hole didn’t. Just . . . kind of shrunk down all small the way Sam did sometimes when he felt guilty or sad. “Yes, that was me. I . . . deeply regret his loss.”

“A serial killer with a conscience, eh?”

“I  _ told  _ you, Dean, I’m not a killer, I’m a minotaur. I don’t like to hurt people, and I  _ certainly  _ don’t wish to kill. I just . . . I can’t help what I need to eat.”

“Uh huh,” Dean said again. The table was freezing, and his ribs and head hurt. “Minotaurs eat people, don’t they?” Bone marrow, to be specific, judging by Jimmy Alvarez’s body, but he couldn’t let on that he knew that. “How do you manage that without killing?”

“We didn’t, for most of our existence. But that’s what got  _ us  _ killed, so I’ve found a new way. All we need is the bone marrow, and modern science . . .” He paused, an almost wistful expression on his face as he reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out two medical instruments sealed up in sterile packaging, and Dean was  _ not panicking _ . “Well, modern science is wonderful, isn’t it.”

A-hole reached under the table and pulled, sliding out a steel shelf on which he placed both instruments. Dean recognized one: a massive, needleless syringe. But the second was a mystery. A  _ terrifying  _ mystery, by the way, because it looked like a really long awl, and based on the condition of the last victim, Dean was pretty sure it was gonna get used like a really long awl, too, except on him.

A-hole reached into a side pocket and pulled out a fistful of gauze and tape and antibiotic cream, sterile gloves and iodine wipes, and placed them on the tray next to the instruments. “It used to be that when we needed to eat, we’d have to crack a person open. Snap their bones right in half to suck out the marrow. The marrow’s all we need, you see. We don’t even need very much; a single grown man could sustain my family of six for a month or two. Not that a feast-famine cycle was exactly pleasant, mind you. We had to eat it all at once, you understand--a dead man’s marrow turns sour in minutes. Plus, extracting it all left messy corpses. Drew attention. This way is much better.”

Dean pulled against the restraints, got nowhere. Like, seriously,  _ nowhere _ ; he was strapped down viciously tight, but he was still  _ not panicking _ . 

“Easy, Dean. I won’t harm you.” A-hole stroked a hand across his forehead, and Dean was torn between jerking away and trying to bite the guy. Ended up just lying there, taking this monster’s ridiculous parody of comfort. “Shhh, it’s alright, I promise.” He picked up the giant awl in its sterile package, held it where Dean could see it without straining his neck. “This is a bone marrow biopsy needle. Everything’s very clean, sterile; I put them through the autoclave myself. And I’ve done this literally tens of thousands of times.”

Dean struggled again, even though it was futile, because he couldn’t not. “And your  _ copious experience  _ is supposed to make me feel better?”

A-hole shrugged, sheepish. “I admit there will be pain. Quite a lot of it, I’m sad to say. But I’ll cause no lasting harm, and it’ll be over quickly. I take very little marrow. If I eat daily, I can survive on exactly what your body is capable of replacing--about four cups a month, for a man as large as you. Just a couple tablespoons a day. You’ll experience some weakness over time, and of course we must be ever-vigilant for infection, but most of my feeders live for many years. Decades, even.”

Well, that explained why they couldn’t find any pattern to the sporadic kills here. “Decades as a monster pincushion. Sounds  _ awesome _ .”

“But it could be, Dean. It really could be.” A-hole tried to stroke his face again, and this time, Dean did go for the bite. Missed, but it sure did feel good to watch A-hole snap his hand back. “I mean it. I’ll take such good care of you. I’ll love and honor and cherish you. Dedicate my life to fulfilling your every desire. And all I ask of you is this one small thing.”

Dean tugged on the restraints again, mostly just to make sure A-hole would see him fighting. “Hate to break it to you buddy, but this ain’t love, and you sure as fuck didn’t  _ ask _ .”

A-hole’s earnest hazel eyes dropped from Dean’s face to the instruments on the tray. He fingered the packet of sterile gloves, opened it up and put them on. “Yes, well. You’ll come around, in time. Everyone does eventually.” He picked up an iodine wipe next, rubbed it vigorously around a small patch on the crest of Dean’s left hip. Opened a second one and rubbed the same patch again. “When you’ve lived as long as I have, you learn to be patient. I can wait.”

“Then  _ wait _ ,” Dean said, and he did  _ not  _ sound panicked. He did  _ not _ . A-hole opened the biopsy needle. The thing was  _ huge _ . “Just, wait, okay? You don’t have to do this.”

A-hole looked downright sad. “Actually, I do. I haven’t eaten in two weeks, not since Jimmy got sick. I’m sorry, Dean. Now be good and hold very still; I don’t want to hurt you any more than I have to.”


	3. Chapter 3

Dean was  _ not going to scream _ . “Any more than I have to” turned out to be “a whole hell of a lot,” like,  _ literal Hell  _ kind of a lot. The pain had seemed . . . well, not exactly  _ harmless  _ at first, but also not anything he couldn’t handle as that big-ass needle pierced the flesh over his hipbone. But then it bottomed out against bone, and A-hole started rocking and twisting the thing while putting enough muscle behind it to make his veins pop. And frankly, the sensation of something  _ very slowly boring  _ into a very big bone was one Dean had never, ever wanted to re-live.

Hold very still.  _ Ha, right.  _ Dean would’ve laughed if he could’ve unclenched his teeth. He was straining so hard against the bindings he’d be sore all over tomorrow, and he couldn’t have stopped if you’d paid him.

“Shhh, it’s almost over. You’re doing so well, Dean.”

“ _ Fuck off _ ,” Dean ground out. He did  _ not  _ need to be patronized by the monster responsible for his pain.

A-hole kept rocking and twisting and pushing, and there was a terrible pressure, and pain,  _ so fucking much  _ pain, and then a sick  _ pop  _ and the pressure stopped but the pain still raged and A-hole said, “There we are now. Hard part’s over; we’re through the bone.”

He pulled a long thin rod out of the needle, and it occurred to Dean with what brain cells he could get to focus on something other than how much this hurt that a hollow needle would probably break under that much pressure, but a solid one wouldn’t be able to suck anything out, so the two-part system was actually pretty ingenious. But then A-hole screwed the giant syringe to the free end of the needle, and every tiny little twitch and movement sent shockwaves crashing through the entire left side of his body. This shit needed to end, like,  _ right fucking now _ .

“Hold on, Dean. This part’s uncomfortable.”

A-hole drew the syringe plunger back, and Dean’s entire existence narrowed down to one searing-hot nerve from his knee to his shoulder, flayed raw and torn loose and sucked out through the point of a fucking needle.

He wasn’t ashamed to realize he’d screamed.

“ _ Stop _ ,” he gasped when it just . . . kept . . . going. “You fucker! I’ll kill you!  _ Stop _ !”

“Shhh. There now, Dean. Almost done. I need to take just a little extra today. Just a few tablespoons to make up for my long fast.”

Dean’s next shout was wordless, agony and fear and helplessness and molten red rage. 

When it was over, it took Dean’s brain several seconds to catch up. By the time the pain had faded enough for him to lift his head and look down at the shattered wreckage of his hip, A-hole was smearing antibiotic cream on him. And, okay, it might’ve  _ felt  _ like a shattered wreckage, but in reality it was just a single small puncture wound beading blood. While A-hole taped a fat wad of gauze over it--pressure bandage, and holy shit that did  _ not  _ feel good--Dean made the mistake of glancing over at the syringe on the tray. Full of his bone marrow, dark red and viscous. Which, to be frank, was a part of his body he had never, ever wanted to see.

He’d seen a  _ lot  _ of gnarly shit in his years, and yet that syringe turned out to be the one to turn his stomach so hard he feared he’d puke.

A-hole must’ve noticed, because he asked, “If I unstrap you, will you attack me again?”

“Yes,” Dean snapped. Then, on more than a micro-second’s consideration, “Fine. No.” Because he couldn’t kill this fucker and escape if he couldn’t even stand up.

A-hole smoothed a final piece of tape over the pressure bandage and then studied Dean’s face for several long moments. “It’s important you understand,” he said. “Every time you fight me, I risk harming you. I only ever take big strong healthy men because they have the most marrow, and because their bodies can replace it most efficiently. But if you make me harm you, you put that at risk. You put  _ yourself  _ at risk.”

“Look buddy, it takes two to slam a guy into a table. Don’t shove off all the blame on me.”

A-hole sighed. “If you misbehave again, if you force me to risk harming you again, there will be consequences. I don’t want to have to punish you, Dean, but I will if you make me.”

Dean couldn’t even move a hand far enough to point, so he turned his chin toward the instrument tray and said, “What, that isn’t punishment enough?”

“Actually, for most people the hip is the least painful place to tap. Roughly half the marrow in your body is in your pelvic bones, and the soft tissue covering them is quite thin and poorly innervated.”

That was  _ least painful _ ? And he’d have to endure that every single fucking day until he found a way out of here? Jesus fucking Christ, he was in trouble.

“But I can’t blame you for trying to escape, so this once I’ll let you off with a warning. But you won’t be getting any clothes back until you learn to remove them on my command.”

Dean tugged at the restraints again and smirked. “You kinky son of a bitch. Look, I don’t judge, but that ain’t my thing, so how about you  _ let me the fuck up _ .”

A-hole stood. Pocketed all his used medical supplies and the syringe full of bone marrow, but left a waterproof bandaid and a single-serve packet of Tylenol on the tray. “I’ll bring you some food in a little while. There’s water in the sink, and the shower’s nice and hot, though you shouldn’t use it just yet; give your body time to clot properly before you swap the gauze for the bandaid. And get some rest. You’ll need it.” Then he walked over to Dean’s right side and undid the strap around his wrist.

He’d left the cell and locked it behind him before Dean had managed to free himself from the rest of the straps and sit up on the table, because holy shit did moving hurt. But A-hole hadn’t exited the larger room yet, so Dean called after him. “Hey, A-hole.”

He stopped, but didn’t turn around. “It’s Alexio,” he said, and though Dean couldn’t see his face, his voice was gentle, good-humored.

“Pie, okay? And a bacon cheeseburger, extra bacon. If you’re gonna fucking  _ eat me _ , the least you could do is feed me some damn burgers and pie.”

At that, A-hole did turn around, and Dean was right: he was smiling. “As I said before, Dean. Anything you desire.”

“Then set me free.  _ That’s  _ what I desire the most.”

The smile faded. If Dean didn’t know better, A-hole might actually convince him he felt  _ bad  _ about all this. “Anything but that, Dean. I’m sorry, but this is your home now. For the rest of your life. I’ll do everything in my power to make it a long and happy one.” He turned back toward the door, keyed it open. Paused in the doorway. “Get some rest, Dean,” he said again. And then he closed the door behind him, leaving Dean alone in his cage to plot his escape.

Because, seriously?  _ Long and happy my ass. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No update tomorrow, as I'll be in the car for like 11 hours. I'll do my best to get an update posted on Friday, though, grandma-internet depending. In the meanwhile, please feed your author!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nice loooong chapter for you guys today :D Probably won't be one tomorrow b/c I'm traveling, but chapter 5 (and 6, and 7!) is written and coming soon.

Turned out there wasn’t a whole lot of plotting to be done. Dean scoured every inch of the cage, but he found no weaknesses to exploit. He checked every piece of furniture, tossed the bedding, flipped the mattress, even searched for screws he could undo with his fingers. All he found was some paper cups over by the sink, a couple softcover books and a deck of cards on the shelves, a washcloth and a towel and a bar of soap, a few rolls of toilet paper and some wet wipes, a tube of toothpaste and one of those little travel toothbrushes with a handle far too small to break or sharpen into a weapon. 

Even the keypad proved useless. It was digital, so the keys didn’t wear like a manual one, which meant he had no way of telling which keys got pressed the most often. He tried breaking it, but it must’ve been seriously tempered, because several sharp kicks later, all he had for his trouble was a moderately sore foot and a viciously sore hip.

“Fuck.” He dragged a hand down his face, blew out a hard breath. Said “Fuck” again just for the satisfaction of cursing. Then he plopped down on his bed because he was seriously fucking tired and he felt like he’d been run over by a truck that had then thrown itself in reverse and parked its tires right over his left hip. 

With a sigh, he stood up again, walked over to the torture table and grabbed the bandaid and the Tylenol. There was barely any blood at all on the gauze when he removed it, but he used the bandaid anyway, just in case, what with there being a hole punched straight through his  _ fucking bone  _ for germs to squeeze into. The Tylenol he swallowed with five little dixie cups’ worth of water because the second the first drop hit his tongue he realized how damn thirsty he was. Then he went back to the bed, but this time he laid down beneath the covers. Crossed his arms under his head and closed his eyes.

_ Heya Cas. I know you probably can’t hear me anymore, but . . . if you  _ can  _ hear me, I’m in trouble, man. And I know, I know I don’t deserve shit from you, let alone some big rescue, but . . .  _

But nothing. Here he was too big a coward even to say the words out loud. He’d  _ thrown Cas out of the bunker _ . He had no right to ask for anything from him.

_ Maybe I should pray to Zeke instead _ . Except, that’d be a trick, wouldn’t it, trying to explain away to Sam why he was suddenly in some monster’s house rescuing his brother. And the last time he’d tried to tell Sam the truth, Zeke had shut him down quick. No way the angel would do anything to risk being discovered.

Still. Maybe Zeke could drop some subtle hints, gently steer Sam’s research. Couldn’t hurt to try, anyway.

_ Listen Zeke, I dunno where I am, but the, uh, the thing that took me claims he’s a minotaur. He nabbed me at that biker bar on the edge of town, uh, Chaps I think it was. His name is Alexio. He’s  _ huge _ , like, Sammy huge. Hair like Sammy’s too, but darker. Hazel eyes. He’s, huh, he’s a good looking guy, if you’re into that sort of thing. I don’t have any other info yet, but I’ll get workin’ on that. And in the meanwhile, maybe you can get this info to Sammy somehow? Uh, thanks? _

Yeah, thanks for nothing, probably, but something told him he’d need to hang on to positive thinking if he got stuck here for more than a day or two. 

* * *

He must’ve drifted off for a bit, because next he knew, the door to the main room was closing, and A-hole was approaching Dean’s cell with a plastic bag in each hand.

And Dean smelled bacon.

He sat up, glad to realize he felt rested and the pain in his hip had calmed almost enough to ignore. His stomach rumbled at the smell of the food, and he swung out of bed and--

\--realized he was completely naked.  _ Fuck.  _ And A-hole was staring at him like it wasn’t just his marrow he wanted to eat.  _ Fuck again.  _ Also, gross. Why did everybody always fucking  _ look  _ at him like that? He’d hoped crossing into middle age would have put a stop to it, but apparently he hadn’t crossed far enough.

With an angry sigh, he yanked the top sheet off the bed and wrapped it around his shoulders, baring nothing to A-hole’s gaze but his calves and fingers. He walked up to the cage door and eyed the bags in A-hole’s hands.

“That for me?”

A-hole smiled. “Of course. I’m sorry it took me so long, I’m afraid I didn’t have these things in the house and I wanted only the best--”

“Hey.” Dean tried on a smile, hoped it didn’t look too fake. “Hey, it’s okay. I uh, I appreciate you going out of your way for me.”

Nothing was okay at all and he didn’t appreciate shit, but if he was gonna get enough details out of A-hole to help Zeke help Sam find him, he had to be willing to talk at the guy instead of just shout at him.

A-hole looked pretty surprised--and very pleased--by Dean’s change of attitude. Hmm, maybe he was laying it on too thick. “I could sit with you while you eat, if you’d like.”

“Uh.” Dean hugged the sheet a little closer around his chest. “Yeah, uh, maybe you just . . . you know, hang outside the bars? Last time you came in here wasn’t exactly a moment for the highlight reel, you get me?”

A-hole smiled his soft smile and nodded like he understood completely. He held the bags out in front of him, as if to reassure Dean that he was only approaching the cage to give him food, not to deny his wishes. When he got close enough, he crouched down and slid them, one at a time, through the opening near the floor.

Dean waited until he’d backed away to grab the bags and take them to the little table.

“So,” A-hole said as Dean unpacked what looked, frankly, like a gourmet feast. The burger wasn’t fast food--the bun smelled yeasty and fresh, the patty was hand-formed, the lettuce and tomato were piled thick and vibrant and crunchy, the bacon wasn’t soggy, the cheese was . . . smoked gouda, maybe? And were those sauteed onions? Dean took a bite and nearly moaned his pleasure out loud. 

“I’m glad to see you enjoying your food as much as I enjoyed mine,” A-hole said.

Dean grimaced, swallowed, swallowed again because it hadn’t quite worked the first time. “Well, I was until a second ago. Fucking  _ gross _ , dude.”

This time A-hole’s smile was remorseful. Did this guy ever  _ not  _ smile? “My apologies,” he said. Then, “Try the french fries. I hear they’re the best in the state.”

Dean did. And they probably were. What was that seasoning?  _ God _ , they were awesome.

“I don’t mean to put you off your meal, but I really must ask. In all my millennia of existence, I have  _ never  _ tasted someone quite as . . . remarkable as you. When I consumed your essence, I felt as if I could live for a thousand years on that morsel alone. It was . . .  _ divine _ . Truly, gods-blessed.”

Dean almost choked on his mouthful of fries.  _ If only you knew, buddy.  _ So not only had he been destined to life as an archangel condom, but he also tasted like manna to monsters? 

_ Fuck me _ .

A-hole stepped closer to the bars again, wrapped his fingers around them. “Tell me, Dean. Who are you? What makes you so special?”

Dean swallowed his fries, picked up the burger. It was almost stacked too high to get his mouth around, but he was nothing if not determined. He shrugged, said, “Just someone unlucky enough to be monster-napped,” then took a big bite.

A-hole shook his head. “I don’t believe you. You’re too perfect in every way.”

Dean laughed, almost choked on his food again.  _ If only you could see the horror show in my head, buddy.  _ Besides, it wasn’t like anything but utter shit had ever come of the face or the destiny he’d been “gifted” with.

“Look,” he said when he’d swallowed his mouthful of burger. Man, when he got out of here he’d have to figure out where this had come from and go back for more. “My name is Dean Isbell. I’ve been a PI pretty much my whole life. My dad was a PI, taught me most of what I know.” A-hole didn’t look convinced, so he added, “I’m just a guy, l right? I dunno, I guess my parents were hot in their prime? I work out a lot? I dunno what to tell you.” He shrugged and went back to his burger.

A-hole was still clinging to the bars like he wanted to rip them clean off and jump Dean. “All the feeders I’ve ever kept were clever and lovely and fit. They didn’t taste like you.  _ Nothing  _ like you.”

“Yeah, well,  _ you’re  _ the monster expert here, buddy, not me. So why don’t you stop busting my damn balls and figure it out your damn self, huh?” 

A-hole licked his lips, flexed his fingers against the bars, licked his lips again. It made Dean shudder. “You’re right. My apologies. I was just so taken, I . . .” Another lip lick-- _ god, gross _ \--and he dropped his hands from the bars. “I must be very careful not to harm you. You are a gift from the gods--may you preserve a hundred years.”

Dean glared at him. “Dude? Creepy.”

“I . . . I’m sorry.” A-hole, of course, went back to smiling--this time wryly, or maybe bashfully. 

Dean ate and let the silence stretch, waited to see where A-hole might take the conversation next. 

When Dean had finished his burger and fries and A-hole still hadn’t spoken another word or even moved a muscle, Dean tried smiling back at him again. It felt a  _ little  _ more natural after that amazing meal. Plus, there was a whole ten-inch pie in the other bag, and it was in one of those fancy white bakery boxes tied shut with a gold-wire bow, so no question it was the good shit.

“You didn’t say what kind you wanted,” A-hole said as Dean undid the bow. “I hope apple’s okay?”

“Apple’s awesome.” The smell of it hit him as he raised the lid, butter and cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves and and sugar. His mouth watered. “So tell me, A-hole, what do you do when you’re not kidnapping people?”

He fished a plastic fork out of the bakery bag, took a big bite. Nearly died and went to Heaven--again.

A-hole’s smile turned maudlin. “Won’t you call me Alexio?”

“Nah,” Dean said through a mouthful of pie. “S’really good pie, though. Burger was awesome, too.” And then he added, “Thank you,” because if he was gonna be stuck here, at least he could keep eating this well. It’d keep his strength  _ and  _ his spirits up, and both were crucial in a situation like this. But A-hole made no reply, so Dean prompted, “What you do?”

“I’m a general contractor. I built this home myself.”

“Guess it’d look kinda suspicious to have someone  _ else  _ install a couple’a jail cells in your windowless basement, huh?” Dean shoveled more pie into his mouth, might’ve moaned a little. If he’d been in his room back home, he probably would’ve followed this up with a good wank and a few fingers of the bunker’s eighty-year-old scotch.

“Yes, I suppose it would. Fortunately I possessed the necessary skills.”

“Yeah, phew, thank god.”

“Are you always so caustic?” A-hole asked, but he was still smiling, smiling.

“Are you always such a leering creep?” Dean fired back.

A-hole shrugged. “I can’t help how delicious you taste. Nor how beautiful you are. Nor the . . . needs that I have.”

Okay,  _ that  _ set off a few extra alarm bells on top of the several dozen that’d been clanging since he’d woken up here. Dean pulled the sheet more firmly over his shoulders, hunched over his pie. Suddenly it didn’t seem so appetizing anymore. 

The silence after A-hole’s admission was incredibly awkward, like,  _ seriously  _ uncomfortable. Hiding in his pie had lost its appeal, so Dean figured he might as well try again on the gathering-information front. “So you run your own company, or . . .?”

“No. I have no need to put in so much time and effort. I’m quite wealthy--a side effect of living as long as I have. Simple artefacts from my childhood are often worth hundreds of thousands of dollars today. But of course I just tell the neighbors that my parents made their fortune in the market boom in the 70s.”

“Is that when you built this place?” 

“Yes.”

“Where are we, anyway?”

“Somewhere safe.”

Dean scowled. “Seriously, dude? I’m stuck down here anyway; what’s it matter if you tell me where I’ll be spending the rest of my life?”

“Exactly. It’s of no consequence to you at all.”

Dean threw his fork down. Wished it were metal so it’d clatter. “You really  _ are  _ an asshole, you know that?”

There was that pained smile again. “I’m merely taking reasonable precautions, Dean. I’m sure a man in a profession such as yours can understand.” 

Dean scowled some more, or maybe more like pouted--he got what he wanted from strangers with shocking frequency when he pouted. 

In turn, A-hole grimaced, like it physically pained him to piss Dean off. “I see you’re upset. I’m sorry I can’t give you what you’re asking for, but please: ask for something else. I want you to be comfortable here. Happy. Engaged. Tell me how you’d like to pass your time and I’ll grant your wishes if I can.”

Dean pursed his lips, gave that question some serious consideration. There were of course the answers that would make whatever time he had to spend here more comfortable, but there might also be answers that’d make that time a lot shorter. 

“A laptop. With internet.”

A-hole grimaced again, but this time he looked irritated rather than pained. “Come on, Dean. You know I can’t let you have that.”

_ Well, it was worth a shot.  _ “Fine. Then a TV. With Netflix. An iPod--classic rock all the way. And a clock; I hate not knowing what time it is. And I hate not being able to turn the lights on and off by myself. Oh, and I’d really like some books. Vonnegut and Tolkien and . . . hey, can you bring me some books about you? Like, the legend of the minotaur, I mean? The older the better, too.”

“About . . . me? Whatever for?”

Dean shrugged, tried on a shy smile. “I dunno, I guess I just figure if I’m gonna be here with you for the rest of my life, I’d like to learn more about you.”

A-hole shy-smiled right back. “You could always ask, you know.”

“Yeah but . . . I guess I wanna see how  _ other  _ people have seen your kind. Read all the legends and epic stories. Make sense?”

A-hole seemed to think about that for a moment, then nodded. “All right. Anything else?”

“Exercise equipment. You want me to stay healthy, I gotta move more than a fifteen-by-twenty cage’ll let me. Free weights. A treadmill. A rowing machine. Maybe a chin-up bar?” 

A little frown was forming between A-hole’s brows. “I’ll . . . see what I can do about that. I can open the bars between the two cells to give you a larger space, though.”

“Yeah, that’d be awesome, thanks.” Who knows, maybe he’d left something in the other cell Dean could use to get the fuck outta here. And because he was starting to feel ridiculous asking a monster for all these gifts, he figured he might as well  _ be  _ ridiculous, so he added, “And can you bring me a framed picture of Patrick Swayze? But not, like,  _ today  _ Swayze. More like  _ North and South  _ Swayze. Or  _ Point Break  _ Swayze. Or I guess  _ Ghost  _ Swayze if you gotta.”

“Uh. All right?” A-hole was starting to look awfully uncomfortable. Good. “Anything else, Dean?”

“Two things, actually. One, could you maybe leave some food down here so I don’t  have to depend on you all the time? Like, what if you’re out on a job and I get hungry?”

A-hole’s smile returned, this time with understanding. “I rarely work more than ten to twenty hours a week, Dean, and only when I’m bored or lonely. I doubt you’ll starve. But, I’m sure we can arrange something.”

“And beer. And, ooh, maybe a little mini-fridge to keep it cold.”

“No alcohol, I’m afraid.”

No alcohol? How was he gonna get through this shit-sack of a kidnapping without alcohol?

He must’ve been scowling again, because A-hole said, all soft and gentle, “You said two things. What was the second?”

Dean picked his fork back up, fiddled with it deliberately, playing up the scared-bashful-worried puppy eyes he’d learned so well from Sammy. He even hunched his shoulders a little, dropped his head and met A-hole’s eyes through his lashes. “Well, I mean . . . I guess I’m just scared, you know?” A-hole started nodding, but before he could reply, Dean pushed on. “I mean, you said . . . what did you call them, hunters?” A-hole nodded. “That hunters killed your people, your family--it sounded like maybe you’re even the last of your kind.”

A-hole said nothing, but that ever-present, morphing smile finally fell away. “I very well may be, yes.”

Dean put the fork down, stood, took a few steps toward the bars, toward A-hole, keeping his body language open and vulnerable. “So I guess what I’m saying is, what happens to me if they find you too? If you go out one day and never come back? Nobody knows I’m stuck down here. I’d starve to death.” Another step closer, another, until nothing but the bars and a couple feet of air were between them. “And, you know, monster or no--you don’t strike me as the kind of guy who’d want that on his conscience.”

For a long moment A-hole said nothing. His gaze dropped from Dean’s eyes to Dean’s mouth ( _ gross,  _ god damn it), then took a long meandering trip down his sheet-covered body and back up his face before settling on his eyes again.

“No,” he finally said. “No, I couldn’t abide that at all.” He leaned forward, probably subconsciously, his face hovering between two bars. “But I don’t know what to do about it. What would my clever human suggest?”

Ew, seriously, how could  _ one dude  _ be responsible for  _ so much grossness _ ?

“Maybe, uh.” Ugh. Dean had to take a step back to think clearly without the sensation of insects crawling all over his skin, but he did his best to make it look like a nervous shuffle rather than revulsion. “Maybe you write a note, put it in your wallet. You know, your address, my name, that you’re keeping me locked up in the basement. As long as you’re alive, no one’ll ever see it. But if something happens . . .”

A-hole nodded, that soft smile returning again, reassured. “My killers would find it on my body and liberate you. Hmm. Yes. I can do this for you.”

“Thanks, Alexio,” Dean said, and the way A-hole’s whole face lit up at Dean’s use of his name told Dean he’d made the right choice there.

“I’ll do it right now, in fact, if you’ll excuse me.”

Dean stuck one arm far enough out of the sheet to wave magnanimously. “Yeah, that’s great, thank you.”

A-hole scurried off, and Dean watched him go with the first glimmer of hope he’d felt in here since he’d been slammed to that table. Because eventually, Sam was gonna catch and kill this son of a bitch. And now when he did, he’d know exactly where to find Dean.


	5. Chapter 5

After living in the bunker for a while, Dean had grown used to not knowing if it was light or dark outside, but at least there he’d always known what time it was. Here he had no idea, so he let his body take the lead and simply went to bed when he was tired. As if A-hole had been watching him intently the whole time, the lights dimmed to almost nothing the moment he’d gotten himself settled. Which, he supposed, was no more creepy than any other creepy-ass thing this creeper had done, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

He woke up sometime later in the nearly-dark, feeling more refreshed than he’d expected to. Whether a side effect of the marrow loss or the rich food or something else entirely, he’d slept deeply and without any nightmares that he could recall. His hip throbbed, but not too urgently, even as he stumbled from the bed to the toilet to take a piss.

The lights were still super dim when he was done washing his hands and brushing his teeth, so he guessed that meant A-hole must sleep at least  _ sometimes _ . Either that or he’d left for a job without giving Dean some fucking daylight. Which, even given as little as Dean knew about the guy, admittedly didn’t sound like him.

For want of anything better to do, Dean crawled back into bed. He wished he had some music to get lost in, but had to settle for humming some Zeppelin to himself until he drifted off again.

When next he woke, it was to the lights gradually brightening, like one of those gentle daylight alarm clocks. He sat up, feeling more rested than he had in weeks, and had to remember all over again that he was fucking  _ naked _ .

He’d just finished fashioning his top sheet into a functional toga when he heard the lock disengaging on the outer door. A-hole walked through a moment later with a breakfast tray in his hands and the smell of coffee wafting straight into Dean’s brain.

“Good morning, Dean!” he chirped. Ugh. Morning people. Worse, morning  _ monsters _ . “I brought you breakfast, and some other things. You eat, I’ll work.”

He slid the tray across the pass-through, and when he stood up, he fished his wallet from his pocket--jeans and a henley today, much more casual than yesterday--and pulled from it a laminated note the size of a credit card. He held it near the bars so Dean could see but not reach, and on the front side Dean read:  _ If you’re reading this, I’m dead. I’m keeping prisoner a man named Dean Isbell: mid to late 30s, approx. 6’1” to 6’4”, short light brown hair, green eyes, freckles, athletic build, many scars. He will die if you do not free him. He’s being held at ----> _

Son of a bitch. The fucking address was on the other fucking side.

Still, when A-hole put it back in his wallet with a soft, close-lipped smile and raised brows, Dean said, “Thank you. I mean that.” He totally didn’t. “That might save my life one day.”

If A-hole had a tail, it’d be wagging right now. “Think nothing of it. It was very clever of you. Now eat. I have hardware to install.”

Dean ate. Like dinner, breakfast was lovingly prepared: melt-in-your-mouth scrambled eggs, whole grain toast with butter and peach jam, fresh fruit, bacon, potatoes with onions and green peppers, and some of the best coffee Dean had ever tasted. There was more than enough for even a guy of his size and appetite, so he worked his way through the tray with relish while he watched A-hole drag a ladder into the room and mount a flatscreen TV to the nearest side wall. 

Well, on the one hand that meant Dean couldn’t ransack the TV for parts he might use to escape. But on the other hand, it meant that at least he’d be entertained while he was in here.

When the TV was done, A-hole hung a digital clock below the screen, then dragged the ladder to the door and used it to reach a switchplate above the jamb. He installed something behind it, then screwed the plate back on.

“All right,” he said. “Clap twice.”

Dean shrugged and did as he was told.

The room plunged into darkness.

“Perfect!” A-hole crowed, then clapped twice to bring the lights back on. “By the way, if you clap three times, you’ll get a nightlight.” When Dean . . . didn’t clap three times? A-hole frowned a little and urged, “Go on, try it!”

Dean sighed and tried it. Sure enough, the lights dimmed. Two more claps, and they came back up to full power.

Well, at least he couldn’t accuse A-hole of not trying to make him happy in his own monster-napping, marrow-eating, perv-gazing way.

“Oh, and!” A-hole darted out the door, darted back in a moment later with three cloth grocery bags in each hand. He placed them right outside the cage bars, where Dean could drag their contents in one at a time. The first two bags were books, nearly all softback. Sure enough, Vonnegut and Tolkien. Plus a selection of other fantasy novels, some lit-fic in Vonnegut’s vein, some sci-fi, some mystery, some thrillers. And there at the bottom of the second bag, four separate books about the legend of the minotaur, two of them at least as old as some of the stuff in the bunker’s library.

“Hey, wow, thanks,” Dean said, and even--in the moment, anyway--actually found himself  _ experiencing  _ that gratitude. Which, wow, fuck that. So the guy had brought him stuff he’d asked for. That didn’t excuse him  _ eating Dean against his will _ .

“Keep going,” A-hole said, instead of something normal like  _ You’re welcome _ .

The other four bags were full of non-perishable food, plus some fruits and veggies that could live on a countertop for a while: clementines, apples, pears, bananas, celery (and peanut butter, because who the fuck ate celery without peanut butter?), whole grain bread, granola bars, cereal, shelf-stable milk in single-serve containers, beef jerky, mixed nuts, that kind of thing. All pretty healthy, which was a shame cos Dean really could’ve gone for some chocolate. Nothing that required heating up or preparing. Nothing that required more than a styrofoam bowl and some plastic spoons. Still, it was exactly what he’d asked for. 

So he thanked A-hole again, then carried everything over to the steel bookshelf (sadly bolted to the floor) and organized his haul. 

A-hole stood there watching him the whole time, a soft, satisfied smile on his face. When Dean was done, A-hole asked, “Would you like me to show you how the TV works?”

Dean shook his head. “I never met a remote I couldn’t tame.”

“Oh, uh, no remote. It’s all voice commands.”

Just fucking great. A-hole wouldn’t even trust him with a small piece of hard plastic and a couple of batteries? Okay, in fairness, Dean could’ve set a fire with those batteries and some of the foil packaging on his new food, and then A-hole would’ve  _ had  _ to let him out, but still . . . “Dude, you don’t trust me  _ at all _ , do you.”

A-hole’s expression turned far too shrewd for Dean’s tastes. “Have you given me even one single reason why I should?”

Dean shrugged. “Look at you, man. I’m a buck-eighty and you body-slammed me like a five-pound sack of flour. What are you so afraid I’m gonna do with a friggin remote control?”

“I fear the unknown, Dean. As do we all. Now do you want me to show you how this works or not? Your music’s on it, too. Three hundred digital stations to choose from.”

“Fine,” Dean grumbled. “Show me.”

A-hole talked him through the voice commands to turn it on, change the channel, change the volume, all that. When he was done, Dean switched it off and said, “Hey, look, I don’t wanna seem ungrateful or anything, but uh. Where’s my picture of Swayze, man?”

He was sort of expecting that A-hole might chuckle at that, but the guy’s full-throated, head-back laugh caught him by surprise. It seemed to take A-hole a good thirty seconds to bring himself back under control, and when he finally did, he was wiping moisture from his eyes. “By the gods, Dean, I thought you were joking!”

So what if he had been? He frowned, stuck his lower lip out, folded his arms across his chest. “Anything I desire, remember?”

A-hole went very serious very quickly, and the way he studied Dean made Dean want to wrap his blanket atop the sheet he was already wearing. “You . . . experience attraction to men?”

Dean reeled back, nearly tripping over his toga. “Uh. Sorry buddy, I don’t swing that way. Swayze’s just a badass, is all.”

If A-hole believed that explanation, Dean couldn’t tell. The guy was still staring at Dean like he wanted to rip him open and examine his insides, or maybe just roll around in them. “I can’t give you a framed anything, Dean. No glass. No wood or metal you can break into a weapon. But . . . I could hang a poster, if you like?”

Well, he was committed now, wasn’t he? “Sure, yeah, okay. Whatever.” He was in any case much more concerned with the other items A-hole had failed to deliver. “And what about my exercise stuff?”

A-hole’s shrewd expression slipped into a scowl. “I can hang a chin-up bar for you after your next extraction; frankly I don’t trust you not to try to harm me if you’re not tied down. As for the rest of it, I’m afraid not. You’ll try to attack me with a dumbbell one day and I’ll have to punish you, and I can’t abide that.”

“No I won’t,” Dean said, even though that was 600% his plan. He knew he sounded churlish but he didn’t know how to make himself stop. “I promise.”

“Uh huh.” That was the most sarcastic  _ Uh huh  _ Dean had ever heard, and he’d dished out some doozies in his day. “Look, I’ll open up the wall between the cages so you have enough room to run circuits around the periphery, and I can bring you a yoga mat and an exercise ball. You’ll find any number of videos on Netflix that will guide you through aerobic or strength training routines using nothing but your own body weight. I’m sure they’re quite suitable.”

Jesus, this guy wasn’t giving a single damn inch, was he? How’d he learn to be so fucking wary and careful? No wonder he was the last surviving member of his species.

“Fine. If you’re gonna be that suspicious, why don’t you fuck off and do it somewhere else? I got me some  _ Game of Thrones  _ to binge.”

No question from A-hole’s pinched expression that Dean’s blow had hurt. But all he did was nod and mutter, “As you wish,” and Dean totally did  _ not  _ think of a young Cary Elwes as A-hole keyed the door open and slunk away.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilery trigger note in the end notes.

Dean did not binge _Game of Thrones._ He did turn on the TV, but only to see if he could tap the internet connection it used to stream Netflix. He tried every command he could think of, then paced for twenty minutes and thought of some more, but none of them got him to anything even remotely related to a website or an email account.

He’d sleep on it and come back to it later, that was all.

Next he spent hours going through all the new items on his bookshelf, one by one, meticulously searching for something, _anything_ he could use to get out of here. He was 100% certain that A-hole was watching him dismantle cereal boxes and granola wrappers through the cameras, that A-hole saw every second of Dean trying to break the hard plastic peanut butter jar lid into something even vaguely lock-pick shaped, but that didn’t mean he was just gonna sit here and wither away. He _had_ to try.

Fuck, he even tried cutting the celery into a pick and a tension wrench, but he couldn’t get thin enough slices with the flimsy plastic knives he’d been given, and even if he could have, he knew damn well it would’ve broken under use. Just like the tines of the plastic forks he’d tried sticking into the lock on the other side of his cage door.

A-hole was probably sitting by a nice sunny window upstairs, drinking beer and watching him on a laptop screen and laughing his ass off. But he wasn’t saying anything through the speakers, and he wasn’t stopping Dean, so whatever. Fuck him anyway. Dean would just keep trying until he found something that worked.

By the time Dean had exhausted every conceivable possibility, it was after 3 pm. Which meant A-hole hadn’t brought him lunch, which was . . . actually kind of surprising. He realized he was hungry, but fortunately he had a ton of food--quite a lot of it unwrapped now, as it happened--so he munched on a granola bar while he made himself a peanut butter and banana sandwich.

He grabbed the oldest-looking book on minotaurs and sat down to eat and read at the little table. The language was archaic, but he was used to sorting through that after thirty-odd years of hunting. Too bad it didn’t tell him much. Best he could figure, you killed the thing with a bronze sword--which maybe or maybe didn’t need to be blessed by a princess, and which maybe or maybe didn’t need to be wrapped in a single continuous string of thread. You maybe or maybe didn’t cut its head off (which, apparently, looked like a bull’s but with the teeth of a lion), or maybe instead you stabbed it in the throat after first stabbing it a minimum of ten times elsewhere.

Well, finding a princess might be tricky, but he was pretty sure they had a bronze sword back at the bunker, and wrapping it in string was easy enough. And a head shot was a safe bet; most baddies died when separated from their heads, or at least slowed down enough to bury their bits in two tons of concrete.

Done with the first book, Dean finished off the last few bites of his neglected sandwich, licked some stray peanut butter off the side of his thumb, and tossed his paper plate in the trash. Then he drank some water straight from the faucet and sat down on the bed to pray.

He tried Cas first, not because he thought Cas could hear him--or would care--but because the instinct, the _need_ to talk to him, was so strong. When he was done relaying every bit of information he’d gathered to Cas, he repeated the message to Zeke, who probably would hear him and might even give enough of a shit to do something about it.

Either way, Dean was no damsel in distress, and he wasn’t gonna just sit around waiting to be rescued. (Besides, Sammy was the one with the Rapunzel hair, not him.) He still had one more idea up his sleeve, and even if it whiffed, he was really pretty sure that A-hole wouldn’t kill him for trying. So. Trying it was.

* * *

Dean was pretending to sleep when A-hole came to visit again. He made a great show of being spooked awake by the opening door, to which A-hole, of course, said, “I’m sorry, Dean, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Yeah, well.” Dean clapped twice to turn the lights on, sat up in bed, rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand. Tried very hard to ignore the fact that since A-hole hadn’t come down here with dinner, he was probably here _for_ dinner. He _had_ brought the promised yoga mat and exercise ball, though, for whatever (fuck-all) that was worth. “Maybe from now on you give me a heads-up before you come down here, huh?”

A-hole paused just outside the cage door, face turning contemplative, or maybe calculating. “I’ll tell you what. If you’ll call me Alexio, I’ll inform you every time before I come downstairs.”

Well, that was a small enough price to pay, Dean supposed. “Fine. Done.”

A-hole said nothing in reply. Just stood there. After maybe ten seconds of awkward silence, he raised an eyebrow, and Dean sighed and said, “Fine, done, _Alexio_.” Then he settled back on his bed, clapped twice to shut the lights off, and folded his hands behind his head. “Now if you don’t mind, I was napping.”

Alexio clapped them right back on. “I’m afraid I do mind.”

_Fuck._

Dean sat up again as A-hole--er, Alexio--keyed in the code to the cage door (five small motions as far as Dean could tell, so four digits and the enter key?) and let himself in. His face softened with remorse at the tension and--fine, Dean would admit it--the fear he no doubt saw on Dean’s face.

“I’m sorry,” Alexio said. “You know I hunger.” He locked the cage door behind him, but didn’t stray from it, keeping plenty of space between him and Dean. “But I hope you had a lovely afternoon enjoying your many new gifts?”

Dean stayed seated on the bed, trying not to look as stiff as he felt. He even managed a shrug. “I made a sandwich. Read a book. Sure woulda been nice to see the sun, though. Get some fresh air. Have a beer.”

“I’m afraid we can’t ever get everything we want. The key to a good life is to learn to be satisfied with what you have.” Alexio paused, like he was actually expecting Dean to debate philosophy with him or some shit. When Dean obviously did not, he sighed and took a single step toward the center of the room. “Enough talk, I see?” He gestured at the torture table. “Then if you please, remove your . . . _toga_ and lie face-down on the table.”

Dean eyed the table. Eyed Alexio. Stood up, fingered the knot he’d tied at his shoulder. Thought about it. Thought about it some more. He _could_ fight, but what would that get him? And his plan would work a whole lot better if Alexio thought Dean was compliant enough to get complacent around him.

On the other hand, the mere _thought_ of assisting his captor with _eating him_ in probably the most painful way possible (and he’d been eaten by _hellhounds_ , he wasn’t talking out his ass here) made him want to puke. Made him feel like a quitter, a coward--frankly, like someone his dad would be ashamed of.

On the _other_ other hand, if he was gonna get out of here, the last thing he needed was a concussion and a chest full of busted ribs. He still ached from the last time Alexio had slammed him on that table. He might not survive a second time in one piece.

“Do I need to revoke your sheet and blanket privileges as well, Dean?” Alexio was wearing a smile again, but this one was stern. He folded his arms across his chest, and his brows creased a little deeper. “Can you not be trusted even with that much?”

Well, that settled it. No way he was gonna hang here naked 24/7 with Alexio watching him through all those cameras.

“Fine. Fine.” He blew out a noisy breath and untied the sheet from his shoulder. Tossed it on the bed with entirely more force than necessary, and then made himself pace straight over to that table. Made himself climb up on its icy surface and lie down on his stomach like he’d been told. Made himself not move and not tremble and _not panic_ as Alexio said, “That’s very good, Dean, thank you.”

He’d been through worse. He’d been to _literal Hell_ . This was gonna be bad, but he and pain were practically lovers anyway, and it’d be over quick and he could get back to plotting the many and varied (and _slow_ ) ways in which he was gonna kill this fucker when he got out.

Alexio approached the foot of the table and rested a huge, warm hand on Dean’s calf. Dean resolutely did not try to watch him as he lingered for a long moment before pacing up to Dean’s head, trailing the tips of his fingers along Dean’s entire right side along the way.

Still, he couldn’t help the sharp “ _Don’t_ ” when Alexio’s fingers skimmed his ass.

Alexio said nothing, just smiled at Dean, licked his lips, raked his eyes up and down Dean’s body, pupils far too large for the level of light in the room. Dean had seen that look plenty enough to know what it meant, and he was _so_ not here for it. “I said _don’t_ ,” he snapped, moving to push himself up from the table because it was one thing to lie there and let the monster eat him to live, but another thing entirely to lie there while the monster took . . . well, things he _didn’t_ need to live.

But Dean only managed to lift his chest an inch or two before Alexio’s heavy hand on his neck slammed him back down. “I thought we agreed you’d stop fighting me, Dean.”

Dean struggled beneath Alexio’s pinning hand, but of course he got nowhere. God, it was like being eight all over again and wrestling with his father. “Well,” he ground out, “that was _before_ you started groping me, you sick fuck.”

With his free hand, Alexio effortlessly secured the first strap across Dean’s shoulders. “As I told you before, Dean, I have needs. I hunger. And you are so, _so_ beautiful. But I’ll take nothing more than you can safely give. I won’t harm you.”

With the strap across Dean’s shoulders doing its job, Alexio had both hands to pin Dean’s right arm by his side and buckle it down before Dean could wiggle off the table. Damn, the guy could _move_ when he wanted to, which--very important bit of intel to note. Dean’s left hand next, and then it was a foregone conclusion that Dean wasn’t gonna be going anywhere until Alexio let him.

He felt the rest of the straps tighten at his hips and thighs and ankles as Alexio monologued at him. “You know, Dean, back in Crete, over two thousand years ago, there was a tradition among men and boys. _Erastes_ and _eromenos_ , we called them: the lover, and his beloved.”

“You mean the pedophile _rapist_ and his victim.” Dean squirmed, kicked out with his one free foot. He connected with a wall of muscle, a glancing blow that didn’t even seem to faze Alexio.

“No, Dean. It was a beautiful thing, a mutually beneficial relationship worthy of celebration.” Alexio grabbed Dean’s kicking leg, strapped it down. “Nothing at all to fear. In fact, those relationships each began much as ours did: with ritual abduction, feasting, and gifts for the _eromenos_.”

“Nothing _ritual_ about the way you abducted me, buddy.”

“Hush now, Dean, and listen. I need you to understand: _Erastes_ loved and honored and cherished their _eromenos._ They nurtured each other, just as you and I shall nurture each other. You’ll sate my hungers, and I’ll protect you, provide you with every need, bow to your every whim.”

Dean swallowed hard. “Look, man, I get it. You gotta eat. That’s uh . . . I mean, it sucks hairy monkey dick, but it’s fine, you know? Cos you _gotta_ .” He swallowed again. _Not panicking not panicking not panicking._ “But you don’t _gotta_ do anything else. You just _want_ to. And that ain’t right. That ain’t enough of a reason to force someone, and neither is some pretty story about fucking boys for their betterment or whatever bullshit it is you’re trying to sell me here.”

Done with the restraints, Alexio moved to the head of the table where Dean could see him. Even squatted down to put them at eye level. His soft little smile was almost patronizing this time, and Dean would’ve sold his soul right then and there just to be able to punch that grin clean off the fucker’s face. “You’ll come around, Dean. After all the pain I must cause you, it’s my duty to bring you pleasure as well.”

“You can keep your fucking duty and your fucking pleasure. I _don’t. Want. It.”_

Alexio stood, stroked a hand through Dean’s hair. Dean jerked his head but couldn’t get far enough away to make the fucker stop touching him. “You’ll grow to like it, Dean. To look forward to it, even. You’ll see. They all do.”

Dean realized he was fighting the restraints again, hard enough to strain muscles in places he didn’t even know he had any. “I said _no_ ! Whatever I desire, right? That’s what you keep saying? Well, I desire that you _not fucking touch me_!”

So of course Alexio did, stroking “soothing” circles right in the center of Dean’s back, and Dean was absolutely, one hundred percent _not panicking._ Not thinking at all in any way of where he’d been the last time he’d been strapped down like this and fucked bloody by a whole room full of demons. God, he hadn’t even had a real body then. How could it not be worse with actual flesh and blood?

“Be still, Dean. Calm yourself. Let me show you how sweet it can be.”

Worn down already with exhaustion and fear and the crushing realization that he was absolutely, utterly _helpless_ , Dean went limp against the table. He was fucking horrified to realize there were tears in his eyes, and his voice was thick when he asked, already resigned, “Will it matter for shit if I keep saying no? You gonna fuck me anyway?”

That hand was still rubbing, rubbing at the sore muscles in his back. “I’m going to _teach_ you to accept pleasure, Dean. That’s all. We’ll nourish each other.” _Ha. Right._ “But I’ll leave the order of events to you. Shall I eat first? Or show you pleasure first?”

“Eat.” No fucking contest. Maybe all that unseemly screaming would put him off his other plans, and Dean would rather have his bones pierced by a fucking ice pick any day than have to face the . . . _other_ thing A-hole wanted to do to him.

“As you wish,” Alexio said, and Dean couldn’t decide if he wanted to laugh or to cry at the sheer fucking irony of that statement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexual assault in this chapter after Dean is on the table, in case you need to skip it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilery trigger warning in the end notes.

Alexio went through the same routine as last time, as far as Dean could tell, although this time it was hard for him to see, which made it about a thousand times worse. He heard the steel shelf being slid out from under the table, heard Alexio arrange his supplies on it, heard the smack of rubber gloves going on, heard the tear of the iodine packet. Laid there and tried not to panic. It was just pain, after all. Plain old pain. He could handle this.

Every muscle up and down the right side of his back twitched at the first cold touch of the iodine wipe.

“Shhh, easy.” A gloved hand patted the skin that’d just been disinfected. “I won’t start without telling you.”

He didn’t bother to answer. Tried to ignore the sound of the second iodine wipe opening, the feel of it against the skin over his right hip, as he thought about Sam, about Cas, about better times when they hadn’t both hated him, when he hadn’t fucked up both their lives. Alexio was tapping him far off to one side, just like he had yesterday, except from the back this time instead of the front.

“All right,” Alexio said. “Brace yourself.”

Fireworks with Sammy in that open field under a clear night sky. Drinks with Cas in that “den of iniquity” the night before they thought the world would end. The needle pierced skin and muscle with a pain sharp enough to make Dean gasp. Hit bone with a sick scraping sensation, and then came that shattering pressure, that rocking and twisting and  _ breaking  _ and  _ oh holy christ it hurt it hurt it hurt _ .

A single, choked-out sob as the needle punched through the bone, toes curled and fists balled in their restraints as Alexio screwed the syringe onto the needle, eyes and teeth clamped shut as the extraction began. He screamed, couldn’t help it, didn’t  _ want  _ to help it--let this monster with a conscience hear every last bit of the agony he was inflicting. Let it sour his fucking meal. 

It ended after a while, Dean wasn’t sure how long. A strange sluggish nausea churned his gut, miserable but without any real urgency. Alexio was taping on a little pressure bandage, and Dean blinked unshed tears out of his eyes and struggled to ground himself, to convince himself of where he was and who was doing this to him and that it was over now.

Well, at least until tomorrow.

He watched Alexio unscrew the syringe from the needle. Watched him bring it to his lips and depress the plunger. Watched his eyes flutter closed as he tasted, as he swallowed. Had to close his own eyes then, or puke all over everything. Wished he had a way to shut out the low moans of pleasure as Alexio ate.

_ Will he make those sounds again when he fucks me? _

It didn’t take Alexio long to eat those couple tablespoons he’d taken, but Dean didn’t open his eyes even after the sucking and moaning sounds stopped. Since he didn’t see it coming, he flinched when a hand patted him on the calf. 

“Rest now, Dean. I’ll hang your chin-up bar and open up the wall between the cells, and by then the extraction will be nothing but a bad memory I’ll help you to forget.”

That snapped Dean right out of his pain-and-nausea-induced fugue. He was fighting the damn restraints again; at this rate, he’d have no skin left on either wrist or ankle by the end of the week. “No. Lemme up.”

“I said  _ rest _ , Dean.”

“And I said  _ no _ ! I’m gonna puke, let me up!”

Alexio studied him for a long moment. “No, you’re not. Now  _ rest  _ or I’ll assume you don’t need it; you won’t get your chin-up bar and a bigger cell, and we’ll move right on to the evening’s celebrations.”

It rankled so fiercely to be scolded like a child that Dean’s eyes and throat burned hot. He almost didn’t stop himself in time from saying something he knew he’d regret, literally had to bite his tongue to hold it in. But he needed to see what was in that other cage, and he needed that chin-up bar (if he could  _ un _ install it, it’d be a great weapon, or maybe even a tool to pry his cage bars apart with), and more than any of that he needed the “evening’s celebrations” to  _ not fucking happen. _

So he stopped struggling and shut up and closed his eyes.

The cage door opened. The cage door closed. Opened again. An electric drill began whirring somewhere to his left, then up above him. 

Christ, his hip hurt. Well, hips  _ plural _ , now, but the fresh wound throbbed like an infected tooth, insistent and unignorable. He wanted that stupid fucking packet of Tylenol Alexio had no doubt left on the little tray.

He wanted a drink.

Okay, he wanted like five drinks. Ten. Like  _ blackout fucking drunk  _ would be great right now, thanks.

Metal scraped on metal. More whirring. Now metal on tile. The cage door opened and closed again. So did the room door. Dean drifted, half awake and half asleep. Dean resolutely did not think about  _ later _ .

But later always fucking came, didn’t it?

Huh, poor choice of words, probably. No, definitely. Because here Alexio was again, startling Dean out of his haze with a hand on the back of his thigh.

“Easy,” he whispered when Dean jumped at the touch--or at least as much as his bindings would allow.

If this was gonna happen--and let’s be real, it was gonna happen if Alexio wanted it to because Dean had no fucking way to stop him--then he  _ couldn’t  _ stay strapped to this table. He’d get . . . lost. Forget where he was. Forget who was behind him. And that’d actually make it  _ worse _ .

“Let me up, Alexio, please.”

Alexio’s hand trailed from his thigh to his ass, fingers stroking firm patterns into his skin. “You’ll fight me.”

Dean closed his eyes, swallowed hard. Decision time. “I won’t. I won’t, I promise, okay? But I can’t be tied to this table while you do this to me, man. I  _ can’t _ .”

The stroking fingers stilled. Left him altogether. Three footsteps, and then Alexio was standing in front of him,  _ completely fucking naked  _ and ragingly hard. God, the guy was hung like a-- Well, Dean didn’t really know  _ what  _ bulls were hung like, but he was  _ huge _ , like, 24-ounce beer can kind of huge, and Dean was  _ not panicking even a tiny little bit.  _ He closed his eyes, turned his head the other way. Sensed Alexio squat down level with his head, but still refused to look at him.

A beat, long and tense. He felt Alexio’s gaze on him, boring into him. Finally, “Someone’s hurt you before.” Not a question. A statement, softly made, like Alexio had any right to be outraged by this, like he had any right to try to soothe Dean about it.

Dean swallowed. Swallowed again. Held very, very still because if he let himself move even a fraction of an inch, he’d start fighting like a wild animal. “Yeah.” Voice low, rough.

“And you were bound then too.” Also not a question.

“Yeah.”

“I have your word you won’t make me harm you?”

Dean squeezed his closed eyes tighter, clenched his fists and teeth. He wanted to say yes.  _ Needed  _ to say yes. But how the fuck would he ever live with himself if he did? He already couldn’t stand to face himself in the mirror, and that was without being complicit in his own damn rape.

A long pause, and then a longer one, and then Alexio said, “I’m sorry, Dean, but clearly you’ve made your choice.” Dean heard him stand and walk back around the table. He wanted to shout  _ No  _ and  _ Wait  _ and  _ I promise _ , but he kept his jaw clamped shut like a Winchester damn well should. “Whoever he was, I’m not him. I won’t let you forget that.”

_ Yeah, good luck, pal. _

“And perhaps  _ some  _ freedom would be safe.” Alexio undid the straps around Dean’s thighs, hips, and shoulders, leaving him bound by his ankles and wrists. That . . . didn’t help, really. Just gave him more room to squirm. Alastair used to do that on purpose, loved to watch him writhe against the pain. That might not be Alexio’s intent, but Dean doubted he’d be able to tell the difference for long.

“There now, that’s better, isn’t it?” Alexio’s hand came back on his ass, and this time it brought a friend. Dean still hadn’t opened his eyes, didn’t plan to start now. Held his breath, too, as the fingers started kneading.

“I hope one day soon we can do this properly. On a real bed, with you free and comfortable and resting easy.”

Dean said nothing. Realized he might kind of be hyperventilating a little. Apparently there was no in-between with the breathing thing right now.

The hands went away. Came back a moment later slick with oil. Palms dug deep into the sore muscles of his ass, pushed firmly upward all the way to the equally sore tops of Dean’s shoulders. It would’ve felt damn good if he could’ve let himself enjoy it, but that was never gonna fucking happen. As it was, all it did was make his skin crawl.

The massage went on, long and firm and thorough. Dean didn’t relax one fucking bit. He wanted  _ desperately  _ to be angry--anger was safe, anger was easy--but the truth was that all he felt was scared. Exhausted. Helpless. Already defeated.

Finally Alexio grew tired of trying to un-tense Dean. Those oiled fingers worked their way back down his body, back to his ass. Parted his cheeks. 

_ The anticipation’s worse than the penetration,  _ he told himself. He kept telling himself that pretty lie right up until Alexio wedged an oiled finger inside him, and pain burned far out of proportion to the size of it. 

“ _ Stop _ ,” he tried, because how could he not? “I mean it.” Threaten, or beg? He knew what  _ he  _ wanted to do, but he doubted it’d work. “Please, Alexio.  _ Please _ . Don’t do this.”

“Shhh. Relax, Dean. I know your kind. You never let yourself have anything good. You never let yourself  _ enjoy  _ life. You need someone to force you to care for yourself, to accept good things, to convince you that you deserve them.”

Fucking christ, Dean could not even begin to contemplate how painfully not-wrong Alexio was about him when the guy was pumping a finger in and out of his ass. Which, to be fair to Dean, was  _ not a good fucking solution  _ to his crippling emotional issues.

“This _ isn’t  _ good,” Dean spat. “You’re  _ hurting  _ me.” 

“ _ You’re  _ hurting you. Relax.” 

Alexio’s fucked-up logic aside, the guy had a point: Dean was way too fucking tense.  _ Gotta relax or he’ll rip me up.  _ Well, at least  _ this  _ monster was using lube. That should make it easier, all things considered. Then again, the last monsters who’d fucked him had  _ normal  _ dicks, not . . . whatever the fuck porn-star caricature was hanging between Alexio’s legs. 

And just thinking of that, Dean tensed up all over again. Relaxing, it seemed, was well and truly off the table.

So of course Alexio picked that moment to add another finger--or maybe it was two, not like Dean could see back there, but  _ god  _ it hurt. The guy’s hands were big but they weren’t  _ that  _ big; he could shove a whole fist up there ( _ okay, but, please god don’t _ ) and still not over-stretch him for that dick.

“ _ Relax _ , Dean. I’ll do this all night if I need to.”

Dean grunted at a particularly deep thrust, a quick scissoring. “It won’t help. Just do it already. Get it over with.”

The fingers kept pumping, thrusting, stretching. Dean was glad he’d been too big a coward to promise Alexio he wouldn’t struggle; he’d be kicking and biting and swinging right now if he could. As it was, he kept fighting the restraints, shifting his hips to try to escape the invasive touch. “I told you already I wouldn’t hurt you, Dean.”

“And I told you you already  _ are _ .” God it was strange to argue with a guy who had his fingers shoved up your ass. “It ain’t gonna get better. I ain’t gonna relax, and I sure as fuck ain’t gonna  _ learn to accept pleasure  _ from a monster who  _ literally kidnapped and ate me _ . So either you mean what you said and you call this quits, or you stop telling yourself all those nice pretty lies and you get the fuck on with raping me so I can get some fucking sleep!”

The fingers in his ass stilled. A beat, utterly silent, like Alexio wasn’t even breathing. 

Then Alexio’s free hand slid up to the small of Dean’s back, and the fingers started pumping again, twisting, stretching gently. Dean tried to rise to his hands and knees, move away somehow, but both the restraints and Alexio’s hand on his back stopped him.

“I won’t let you goad me into hurting you, Dean. Maybe you think you deserve to be punished. Or maybe you just think you don’t deserve pleasure. But you’re wrong on both counts.”

“Yeah? And what if I’m not, huh? What if I’m a bad fucking person? What if I’ve hurt the people I love, lied to them, betrayed them, left them alone when they needed me the most? Wouldn’t I deserve to be punished then?  _ Huh _ ?”

It seemed Alexio had no answer for that. He just kept up the gentle finger-fucking, and worse, the pain was starting to fade, the burn and the stretch cooling beneath Alexio’s relentlessly careful prep. If  _ Dean  _ wasn’t careful, it might actually start feeling good soon, and that was like twelve fucking steps too far. So he kept pushing.

“And what about you? I’ve been here two days and I bet I’ve already given you more shit than Jimmy gave you in eleven years. I keep fighting you. I  _ will  _ keep fighting you. And what’re you getting for all that patience and kindness, for all those gifts you gave me, huh?  _ Shit _ , that’s what. So go ahead, Alexio. Sate your hunger. Worry about you for a little while instead of me. Don’t you deserve that?”

Alexio paused, then stuffed another finger in Dean’s ass, so he figured he’d hit a nerve. Unfortunately, so did Alexio, and Dean grunted again, jerked in his restraints. At least it wasn’t a good nerve, because really, what kind of sad, lonely, fucked-up loser got off on his own violation?

“That’s it,” Dean goaded. “Keep going. You gotta teach me to  _ behave  _ before you can teach me pleasure, right? Otherwise I’m just gonna make you keep hurting me until one day, you really do, and I end up dead and you end up starving.”

Alexio made a strange little huffing-growling sound behind him, a low and angry sub-vocalization that sent chills straight down to--ironically enough--the marrow of Dean’s bones. Then he shoved another finger into Dean’s ass and splayed them all wide enough for Dean to feel each individual one, all four of them stretching and burning and digging, and he bared his teeth and balled his hands into fists and made his own low growl because, yes, he wanted this fucking  _ over  _ with, and he couldn’t--he  _ couldn’t _ \--even begin to let himself enjoy it, but god did it have to hurt so fucking much?

“If this is truly the lesson you want to learn, Dean, then I accept that.” Something about the sibilance and vibration of those words made Dean think the monster’s true face was showing, that he was speaking through the snout of a bull and the teeth of a lion. “I will teach it to you.”

Then he ripped his fingers free, and before the burning could even begin to fade, before Dean could take even a single breath of relief, Alexio leapt up on the table and laid himself over Dean, and then the head of that massive cock was trying to force its way inside him.

Dean squirmed and shouted, threw all his strength into freeing even one damn leg so he could get the fuck away from this. But Alexio ground down into him, pinned him with his bodyweight as his hips drove relentlessly forward, blunt pressure at his hole building and building and there was  _ no way  _ that was ever gonna fit. 

“Have you gotten what you wanted now?” Alexio growled in Dean’s ear, breath hot and moist on the side of Dean’s neck as that massive head finally popped inside with all the force and impact of a bullet fired from a gun, as it worked deeper, splitting and tearing and  _ oh holy fuck make it stop you’re killing me-- _

Alexio jerked his hips again, and Dean whimpered as more of that double-beer-can cock wedged inside him. Four fingers had done  _ nothing  _ to prepare him for this. All the oil and good intentions in the world couldn’t have eased the way, and neither could the blood he had no doubt he was shedding. 

His whole focus was drawn so viciously to the fire raging at the core of him that he almost didn’t notice Alexio licking his ear, almost didn’t hear him ask, “Am I teaching you well? Have you been punished enough yet?”

“ _ Yes _ ,” Dean cried, even though he knew damn well there was no such thing as more punishment than he deserved. But he was weak, and a coward besides, and somehow this hurt even worse than a fucking extraction so of course he’d stop it if he could. “ _ Stop.  _ Get  _ off  _ me _. _ ” He couldn’t fucking breathe. Alexio was so heavy, and Dean’s nose was plugged and his throat tightened as that massive cock shoved in a little deeper. Fucking christ,  _ why  _ had he pushed Alexio into hurrying this up again? “ _ Getoff. _ ”

“Not until you’ve learned your lesson, Dean. Not until I’ve sated my hunger.” But Alexio lifted his upper body anyway, and Dean had just enough time to be confused before Alexio said, “I’m not even a third of the way inside you yet, and look at you--you’re already begging, writhing, in agony. This could’ve been good, Dean. You could’ve been writhing with  _ pleasure _ .” 

No, he couldn’t have. No way. Ten fucking  _ years  _ of prep wouldn’t have made  _ this  _ go down without blood and tears. “Fuck you,” he ground out. “You lying, sanctimonious  _ asshole _ .”

Another shove forward, Alexio’s dick like a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire and dipped in molten lead, and Dean couldn’t help it--he screamed. His ass clenched and his gut cramped and he was going to be sick, was gonna puke all over the both of them and wouldn’t that serve Alexio fucking right. 

But he didn’t. Not even when Alexio murmured, “Halfway, now.” Dean wanted to sob, though, because he could swear he already felt that dick ramming up against his fucking diaphragm, and just where exactly was the  _ entire other half  _ of it supposed to go without killing him?

He always knew he’d die ugly, but he didn’t want it to be now. Not like this.

“Alexio, please . . .” If Alastair had taught him anything at all--aside from how to hurt others to ease his own damn pain--it was that he wasn’t above begging after all. “You’re  _ killing  _ me. Please. Enough.” He had to stop, try to breathe. “I’ve learned my lesson, okay?  _ Enough _ .”

Alexio had the fucking nerve to kiss the back of his head. Then he shoved in a little further, waited until Dean was done choking on the pain, and said, “That’s as may be. But  _ I’m not finished yet _ .”

God only knew how he’d  _ ever  _ finish; shoving his cock into a vice couldn’t exactly be comfortable for Alexio, either. But he kept at it, driving a little deeper with each small rock of his hips, Dean gasping and trembling beneath him, all his focus thrown into just  _ breathing  _ through Alexio’s weight and the torture he was inflicting.

It hurt so goddamned bad that Dean actually forgot, for several long moments, just how damn  _ humiliating  _ this all was. Forgot that he, Dean Fucking Winchester, badass extraordinaire, had been overpowered by  _ one dude  _ as easily as a small child and objectified to the point of cruel, mindless use. Nothing but a damn sex toy.

And it was that--not even the agony, but rather that sense of abject shame, of his utter failure and debasement--that finally pushed him over the edge. He dropped his head back to the table as Alexio thrust in a little deeper, gave up the futile struggle, and let the tears fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically this entire chapter is one long and occasionally brutal rape. (Alexio also hangs Dean's chin-up bar and opens up the wall between the two cages.) You can safely skip if you need to.


	8. Chapter 8

Dean came to in a warm bed in a dim room, and in those few blissful seconds before the pain and the memories hit, he’d forgotten where he was and what’d been done to him.

He couldn’t remember passing out, though god knew he remembered enough pain to justify it. He was _still_ in pain, way too fucking much of it. He was almost afraid to reach a hand down and touch gentle fingers to his ass, convinced he’d find a pool of blood on the sheets, but there was nothing. Just unbearable tenderness and a faint smell of disinfectant soap.

He remembered Alexio taking _forever_ to bottom out. He remembered the pain in his gut, so sharp it was almost like being stabbed. He remembered Alexio starting to move in earnest, long slow thrusts almost all the way out and then all the way back in again. Alexio picking up speed, using such force Dean half expected the table to unbolt from the floor. Being _convinced_ he was dying, that Alexio was ripping up his insides. He remembered begging without shame. Screaming. Crying like some pathetic little kid. Threats and anger and agony and terror and then . . .

. . . And then he’d woken up here. Everything hurt. The fire in his ass he expected--like every inch of him inside and out and been scoured with sandpaper and then drenched in menthol--and the soreness in his guts, too, like Alexio’s dick had done some serious blunt-force rearranging in there. But despite all the struggling he’d done, he was somehow surprised by the full-body muscle strains, by the gauze wrapped around both wrists and ankles and the fierce, sharp aches beneath the bandages.

No surprise that he wanted to shower--could he _be_ any more cliched?--but he couldn’t work up the energy or the courage to move. Alexio had obviously washed him anyway--which, yeah, okay, just made him want to shower even _more_ , but at least he wasn’t gonna die of infection or lie here smelling like monster come if he didn’t get up and wash.

Ultimately, there was only one thing to do, really, and that was close his eyes and try to go back to sleep and pray to whoever might have any fucks left to give about him at all that he wouldn’t dream.

* * *

Dean was woken from the sound of nightmare-Alexio’s voice by, of all the disorienting fucking things, the sound of real-Alexio’s voice. He lurched so hard he fell right out of bed, landed on the tile floor with a grunt as the impact jarred through his abused body. Still, he scrambled to his feet, dropped into a ready crouch. He wouldn’t let Alexio tie him to that table ever again. He _wouldn’t_.

“Relax, Dean.” Dean whirled toward the sound, then realized it was . . . kind of coming from everywhere.

The speakers.

Muscles uncoiling. Heartbeat calming. Alexio wasn’t here. He was safe for now.

He was also still fucking naked. Standing hurt anyway, so he sat back on the bed, pulled the blanket over his shoulders and around his lap. “What do you want.” Flat, no inflection.

“I . . .” That was an awfully long pause. Did that fucking monster actually feel _bad_ about what he’d done? Good. Let him fucking suffer. “I thought you might like some dinner?”

“Not hungry.” And it wasn’t just because he didn’t ever want Alexio coming down here again. He really couldn’t even _think_ about food right now.

“I could make you some soup, perhaps? A mug of tea?”

“I said no, Alexio.” Dean let his tired body slump over, curled up on his side and rested his head on his pillow. “Or do you _still_ not remember what that word means?”

Another long, _long_ silence over the speakers. Then, sadly, or maybe with hope, “ _Eromenos_ would often pretend at indifference to their _erastes_. It was . . . uncouth for them to show too much eagerness or pleasure.”

“I’m not pretending, Alexio,” Dean said softly; he was too tired to argue, too tired to shout. “And I’m not your _eromenos._ I’m your kidnap victim. Your food source.” A pause, and then, “Your fuck toy.”

“Dean . . .”

But Alexio never finished that sentence, and Dean had no intention of filling the silence for him.

“I’ll let you rest, then. Sweet dreams, my precious human.”

“Yeah, Alexio,” Dean murmured to the wall. “Fuck you too.”

* * *

Between the nightmares and the pain, Dean slept like shit, but at least he slept till morning. Or so he figured, anyway, as the brightening cell lights brought him gently to awareness. Fuck, for all he knew, it was 4am and Alexio was force-starting Dean’s day because he was lonely, but a quick glance at the clock disabused him of that (well-deserved, if you asked him) unkind notion: it read 7 on the dot.

“Good morning, Dean.” Dean gritted his teeth against that voice coming through the speakers. He wanted to punch something. Cry. Scream. “Would you like some breakfast?”

“Not hungry.” He pulled the covers up to his chin, rolled over. It wasn’t possible to face away from every camera down here, but he suspected the action was plenty telling anyway.

“You have to eat, Dean.” Worried, chiding. Maybe even guilty, though Dean could easily be imagining that.

“Why? To keep living down here so _you_ can eat? So you can--” His throat closed off. Wouldn’t let him say the words out loud, wouldn’t let him make it _real_ like that. He rolled back over, stared straight into the camera by the TV. “You know what? Fuck that noise.”

A beat. Another one. Then, “Just some coffee, perhaps?”

“No.”

“Apple pie? I baked it fresh this mor--”

“ _No_ . I know you got some serious fucking trouble with that word, asshole, but _no_ . I don’t want _anything_ from you. Just stay the fuck away from me, okay?” He rolled back over again, thought to pull the covers right over his head but then figured that was way too childish. “Just leave me alone.”

Another silence, longer than the last. Dean hoped the fucker was choking on his own damn guilt. “. . . Can I bring you some Tylenol, at least?”

Okay, _that_ he wanted. But that’d mean Alexio coming down here, and anyway he deserved to hurt, didn’t he, because he’d been a coward, he’d stopped fighting, he’d climbed up on that table and let Alexio strap him down and . . . and _hurt_ him without even _trying_ to get away.

“No,” he said again. Felt good to say it, even if it meant nothing to the monster upstairs. Felt good to remember he had the guts to say it. “I’m going back to sleep now. We’re done, Alexio. Don’t talk to me again.”

He didn’t expect it to stick, and of course Alexio would eventually come down to feed, but maybe he’d get lucky and that’d be the end of it. Maybe Alexio would finally catch a fucking clue.

And just to make things as absolutely fucking clear as possible, Dean clapped twice and plunged the room into darkness, shutting himself away from Alexio’s view.

* * *

Much to Dean’s surprise, he slept. Well and deep, as far as he could tell. No memory of nightmares, and the clock had moved from 7 am to 1:19 pm.

He even hurt a little less when he stood to take a piss. He needed to take a shit, too, but he held it. Wasn’t ready to face the way-too-painful reminder of last night he knew would come when he finally couldn’t hold it anymore. Took a shower instead, resolutely _not_ staring at the marks Alexio had left all over his torso and upper arms when he’d struggled, at the bandaid covering the bone-deep puncture wound on his left hip, at the soggy bandages around his wrists and ankles he finally gave in and undid, revealing skin chafed raw and bloody, edged with the beginnings of some spectacular bruising. He washed it all without looking, without _thinking_ , then rinsed off, dried off, put on his sheet-toga and brushed his teeth.

His stomach rumbled at the minty taste of the toothpaste. Seemed he was hungry after all. He _could_ eat--there was no lack of nutritious choice in his cell--but did he really want to? And if he did hunger strike, was he willing to see it all the way through, or was this really just a cowardly thing to stake his life on? Sure, maybe Alexio would stop fucking him if he refused to eat, but maybe he wouldn’t, and how would Dean ever get out of here if he didn’t keep his strength up? If he _gave_ up that easily?

Except, he knew damn well he could go a day or two without experiencing any symptoms at all but a rumbling belly. God knew he’d done it enough growing up. Maybe Alexio would call his bluff before he made himself too weak to take advantage of a potential opening, and maybe he wouldn’t. But Dean could at least try, and there’d be nothing cowardly about that. It was downright strategic, actually, as long as he didn’t draw it out too long.

So, no breakfast. Lunch. Whatever. He drank a heap of water instead--something to fill his belly for a little while, at least--then figured it was well past time to explore the changes Alexio had made to his cage.

Part of the barred wall dividing the two cells had been removed--a section maybe four feet wide. Hanging a few feet in front of it was a shiny new chin-up bar, basically just a piece of steel piping on two short chains bolted to the ceiling. He jumped up to grab it, swung his body a few times to test its anchors. When that did nothing, he spun himself upside down, curled his knees to his chest and planted his feet against the ceiling to see if he could leverage the bar from its moorings. It occurred to him only belatedly that if he succeeded, he’d be propelling himself, back-first, eight feet to the very hard floor with tremendous force, but he had no luck in any case. That shit was bolted tight, and all he ended up doing was accidentally punching his feet through the ceiling sheetrock and gouging a long shallow cut halfway up his right shin.

He peered into the hole, of course he did. Even hooked his legs around the chin-up bar so he could free a hand to poke around in there. Found nothing but empty space--but not nearly enough of it, mind you, for him to crawl through; there was maybe six inches of clearance up there--because why the fuck would anything good ever happen to him, anyway?

Leg stinging, he uncurled and let go of the bar. He checked the little pile of sheetrock he landed in, just in case something had fallen he could use as a weapon, but that was as useless as the hole he’d made.

Time to scour the other cell, then. He was pretty damn sure that’d be useless too, because if there was even the slightest chance something was over there, Alexio wouldn’t have given him access. The fucker hadn’t made it thousands of years by being careless, that was for damn sure. But Dean hadn’t made it this far by being careless either, and it wasn’t like he had anything better to do in any case, so he walked into the other cell and tossed it, top to bottom.

Useless. Fucking _useless_. Even the damn bed was stripped to the mattress, so he couldn’t get so much as an extra toga out of his efforts.

He came back into his own cell, sat on the bed, dropped his head into his hands and blew out a noisy sigh. The non-stop strike-outs were starting to get to his head. He eyed the chin-up bar again, the hole he’d made above it. Stood, walked to the other side of the cell, and then took a running leap at the bar, throwing his body weight against it with as much force as he could. It didn’t budge, but maybe if he did that a few hundred or a few thousand times, it’d come loose. And, yeah, not like he had anything better to do around here anyway.

So he ran and jumped and grabbed and swung until he wore himself out, until the clock had moved past 5, and still the damn bar was fixed firmly in place, swinging placidly. Dean, on the other hand, was beat. Sweaty, breathing hard, muscles trembling, body aching. His wrists worst of all after all the hard work he’d made his hands do today. Alexio hadn’t left him any spare bandages, but he’d rather gnaw his own damn arms off then ask that fucker for _anything_.

So he sat back on the bed again, leaned back against the cage bars and closed his eyes. He’d let himself rest for a little while, but then he was gonna have to face the truth: the only way he was getting out of here was with someone’s help. And since Sam and Cas hadn’t busted the door down yet, he had to operate on the assumption that they couldn’t--or wouldn’t. Which meant getting help from Alexio instead.

Well, no one ever said life was gonna be easy, huh.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see the end notes for spoilery trigger warnings.
> 
> Also, I won't be posting again probably until Friday, as I'm off on a business trip with a really tight schedule :( Please feed your author while she's away adulting!

Dean must’ve fallen asleep again--and why the fuck did that keep happening, anyway; he wasn’t hurt _that_ bad--because he woke to Alexio’s voice over the speakers.

“I’m coming down, Dean. No arguments, if you please.”

Dean stared at the clock. “Fuck you, I do not please,” he snapped, then blamed his brain for not waking up quite as fast as his mouth had. But whatever. Wasn’t like Alexio didn’t deserve his scorn.

Thirty-four seconds later, Dean heard the first beep that meant Alexio was keying in the code to unlock the outer door. Three seconds after _that_ , the lock disengaged and the door swung open.

 _Thirty-seven seconds where he’s not watching the cameras._ That wasn’t a _ton_ of time, but a guy could get a lot of shit done in thirty-seven seconds if he put his mind to it.

Predictably, Alexio entered the room with his hands full. It was almost 7:30, which meant that both of them were late for dinner. Dean’s stomach rumbled at the thought, and again at the sight and smell of what was on the tray Alexio was carrying.

Still, Dean scurried into the other cell when Alexio balanced the tray on one hand to key in the lock code to the cage door. It wasn’t that he was trying to put as much space between Alexio and him as possible--although that was an admittedly welcome side-effect--it was that he was hoping he’d be able to see the code Alexio was entering from the new angle, given how far off to the side he was now.

He couldn’t, but he hadn’t really expected to be able to. Plus, he was more sure than ever now that from the far corner of the cell he was hunkering in right now, he’d be able to see the code Alexio used on the way _out_. Which, let’s be real, was the way more important one for the whole escaping thing anyway.

Alexio entered the cell, closed the door behind him, walked the tray to the table in the back, and only then turned to face Dean. He offered Dean a sad, nervous little smile and waved at the tray. “I wasn’t sure what kind of soup you liked, so I made several.”

He paused like he was waiting for Dean to ask about the varieties on tonight’s menu, but Dean just glared at him from the other cell.

Alexio pointed one by one to the little crocks on the tray. “Chicken noodle, white bean, tomato rice, roasted red pepper and smoked gouda. All homemade, of course.”

Dean’s chest did a funny little contracting thing at the mention of tomato rice. His mouth watered. He _wanted_ it. But not like this. Not from _him_.

“I also baked some fresh bread,” Alexio said hopefully. “And three kinds of pie.” There were in fact three mini pies, beautifully made, each on their own saucer-sized plate. “You liked the apple, so apple, of course. Plus banana cream and chocolate silk.”

Dean swallowed down the saliva in his mouth and said, “I’m not hungry.”

It was pretty fucking satisfying to watch the hope slide right off Alexio’s face. He opened his mouth, took a breath, seemed to reconsider and closed it again. “You’re upset,” he finally said.

Dean stepped out of the corner he’d been fake-huddling in and squared his shoulders. “Damn fucking straight I’m _upset_ . You seriously just figuring that out _now_?”

“Dean--”

“Do you even understand what you’ve done?”

“I fed,” he said, and he sounded so genuinely confused about why that was a bad thing that Dean despaired of ever getting through to him.

“You did more than just _feed_ , Alexio. I already told you I get that you gotta eat. But you’re not gonna die if you don’t get laid.”

“How do you know that?” Not confrontational, just . . . earnest. “I _hunger_ , Dean. One hunger is no different or less vital than the next.”

“ _No_ , damn it!” Dean strode forward, banged his hand against the bars of the partial wall separating the cells. “No! Just because you can’t tell the difference doesn’t mean there isn’t one. You’re a sick, selfish, greedy asshole is what you are. You’re like a toddler, _I want I want I want_ without ever stopping to consider for one fucking second that maybe you’re hurting people for no damn reason! ‘I’m afraid we can’t ever get everything we want,’ remember, Alexio? Or does that just apply to everyone but _you_?”

Alexio stood there and let him shout. Stood there when he was finished, watched him panting with his helpless fury. Blinked and blinked some more. Too much. Said nothing.

Only because Dean was so well trained to spot subtle cues did he notice the tiny tightening of Alexio’s jaw, the few extra lines gathering at the corners of his eyes. He took a step back from the bars, mapped the shape of the cage in his head for things to hide behind, to throw, to use as weapons or defense. The bare mattress was the only thing in here not bolted down, and he doubted that’d help him if shit went as south as he thought it might be about to.

But Alexio still didn’t move. Just said, voice hard and brooking no argument, “Eat your food, Dean. Then I’ll give you some painkillers and re-bandage your wounds. Then I’ll eat. You will let me. You will not argue.”

Dean folded his arms across his chest, resolutely did not let the pain of brushing his wrists against his toga show on his face. “Yeah,” he drawled. “About that. That ain’t gonna happen. Not until you swear to me that _all_ you’re gonna do is eat, and you won’t _ever_ touch me again for any reason but to get your marrow.”

Honestly, Dean thought that was pretty damn generous of him, letting Alexio know he wouldn’t fight over the extractions. But he knew how to pick his battles, and that it was dumb enough to draw a line in the sand during high tide--he wasn’t even gonna begin to try drawing a line in front of a fucking tidal wave.

But Alexio didn’t agree. Didn’t do anything at all, in fact, except tighten his jaw a little more, furrow his brow a little deeper. Dean didn’t dare to hope Alexio would walk away, but . . . _Come on, asshole. It’s a good deal. Take it._

Alexio moved away from the tray, toward the new open space between the cells. One step. Two. Three. Stopped in the doorway, planted his feet wide. Huffed out a breath so strong it ruffled Dean’s hair.

“You seem to be under the mistaken impression that I am human.” There was a growl behind those words, a low rumble that sent literal chills down Dean’s spine. “And thus you insist upon holding me to your human standards. To your silly human morals.”

Another huff of air, and Alexio’s face . . . _moved_. Morphed into something else right before Dean’s eyes: a massive bull’s head on that massive neck and those massive shoulders, complete with a pair of seriously dangerous-looking horns.

Alexio’s fists balled, and Dean couldn’t help it, he took--okay, kinda stumbled--a step back.

“But I am _not_ human, Dean.” Those words came out on a growl too, a _real_ one this time, straight out of a bull’s mouth full of lion’s teeth.

Dean swallowed hard but stood his ground, though fuck-all knew what he could possibly do without a weapon if this massive thing decided to charge.

“I am a _monster_ . I am made of the god Poseidon himself. I am a _punishment_ for your human hubris, your human deceit, your human _weakness_ .” Alexio pawed at the fucking ground like an actual fucking bull, dropped his head forward to show the gleaming points of his horns, the spittle on his four-inch canines. He took one step forward, through the doorway into the other cage. A second step. “And I was made to _devour_ you.”

Dean ran.

Of course, there really wasn’t anywhere to run _to_ , and Alexio was roughly the size of a small car, just as fast and ten times more maneuverable. When he threw his head back and roared, Dean almost froze--fuck, almost _wet_ himself--but he kept his feet moving, leaped onto the bed and vaulted right over Alexio as the monster grabbed for him, darted into his own cell and snatched up anything at all he could get his hands on, anything he could throw to hit Alexio or trip him up.

Unfortunately, a bunch of celery and a jar of peanut butter didn’t so much as slow the monster down, even hurled straight between the eyes.

It didn’t take long for Dean to find himself backed into a corner, Alexio looming just five feet away, head down and foot pawing at the ground again. The way he was breathing--half snort, half growl--Dean nearly expected to _see_ the puffs of air streaming from his snout.

“Alexio . . .” Dean held both hands up, palms out. The only way he was gonna get out of whatever Alexio meant to do to him was to talk him down. “Please. Put that away, would ya? You’re scaring the shit outta me.”

Alexio grinned ear to ear, baring more enormous sharp pointy teeth than Dean _ever_ wanted to see this close to his own face. “Good. Perhaps you will finally learn your lesson, _human_.”

Dean swallowed. Kept his hands up. Forced half a smile onto his face. “Yeah. Uh. Lesson learned, okay? Lesson _very_ well learned. You’re a monster, I get it.”

Alexio _roared_.

And then rushed him.

Dean ducked, tried to dart around the guy, but Alexio snagged him with a clawed hand, digging five burning puncture wounds into his upper arm and jerking so hard Dean saw stars. He thought for a second that Alexio had dislocated his shoulder, but then the pain faded just enough to make him reconsider, and then he was being half marched half dragged toward the table, and the state of his shoulder ran right out of his brain. He dug his heels in. Struggled. Fought. Shouted.

Didn’t matter for shit. None of it did. Alexio bent him face-down over the table with one hand and ripped his toga off with the other. Didn’t even use the straps to hold Dean down. Didn’t need to. The hand pinning the back of his neck might as well have been a steel cable.

Hot moist air puffed across his neck, shoulder, ear as Alexio scented him, then breathed out. “You still do not understand. You are my _food_ , human. My servant. My sexual gratification.” Alexio kicked Dean’s legs apart, shoved a finger up Dean’s ass without even bothering to spit on it first. Dean shouted, jerked against the intrusion and fear and pain, had just enough presence of mind left to be grateful that the claw on that finger seemed to have disappeared. He bled anyway, but at least maybe he’d _survive_ this.

“You exist to sate my hungers. Your kind always has. When will you learn to be _grateful_ for my kindness? My generosity? My concern for your comfort?” Not gonna lie, kinda hard to see Alexio’s concern for Dean’s comfort when the fucker was ramming at least one finger in and out of Dean’s bleeding ass.

Alexio stepped back, and he was so damn _big_ he somehow managed to keep his hand on Dean’s neck while dipping his head to Dean’s ass. A _massive_ tongue licked a slimy stripe up Dean’s crack, then again, and again. Then that tongue shoved inside him, slicking the way or maybe just chasing after the blood. It was thicker than the fingers, but at least the burning drag was gone, even if the over-fullness, the tearing stretch and the nauseating sense of violation grew by leaps and bounds.

The tongue pulled out abruptly, and way too many fingers shoved back in its place, and then Alexio’s body was draping over Dean’s, heavy as a lead curtain, cutting off his shout along with his air.

“I give you everything. _You_ . My _chattel._ When I owe you _nothing_ . _This_ \--” a vicious twist and shove of his fingers in Dean’s ass, a bloody scrape of teeth across Dean’s shoulder “--is what I was made to do, what _you_ were made to be for me. Would you like me to return to this, Dean? Fuck you bloody night after night? Crush your limbs one by one beneath my teeth and suck the marrow straight from your bones?” The fingers pulled free, and after a moment’s fumbling, Alexio’s cock took their place, forcing and burning and tearing until it finally punched through Dean’s resistance. Dean screamed, fingers scrabbling uselessly at the steel tabletop, feet kicking at nothing; Alexio’s ramming cock had lifted him clear off the floor. “Is this what you want? Or will you finally _be grateful for the love I show you_?”

Dean couldn’t have answered if he’d wanted to. He could barely breathe through Alexio’s weight, barely think around the pain, barely even remember where he was with the scared little rabbit in his brain leaping frantically from one panicked sense to the next. His whole world had narrowed to searing heat and suffocating weight, foul breath and bruising fingers, molten fire between his legs and in his guts. He’d done something wrong, angered Alistair somehow, and he was being punished, terribly punished, he hurt like he hadn’t hurt in months, in _years_ , “Please,” he begged, _anything_ to make it stop, “ _Please_ . I’m sorry, I--” Gasping, choking on it all, but he had to finish, had to say the words. “I’m _sorry_ , won’t do it again. Please . . . _please_.”

Alistair didn’t stop, of course he didn’t. Dean wasn’t _punished_ yet. How could he learn his lesson if Alistair stopped just when it was getting too bad for Dean to bear?

So of course Alistair did the opposite. Whatever he was ramming inside Dean--his fist, probably, his fist and wrist and arm straight up to the fucking elbow--he sped it up, fucked him harder, faster, the hand pinning his neck pressing so hard Dean dared to hope it’d snap his spine and he’d cease to feel anything at all until Alistair noticed and magic’d him whole again--which on a lucky day could take hours. A massive tongue licked up his back, his shoulder, the side of his face. Sharp teeth dug bleeding lines into his skin. A particularly vicious thrust lifted Dean’s feet several inches off the floor, and he screamed again but didn’t fight, laid there and took it because he’d been _bad_ , he’d made Alistair angry and the only way to fix it was to take his punishment like a man. Which in this case meant like Alistair’s meek little bitch.

Eventually, Alistair grew bored of torturing him like that, or so Dean assumed. It wasn’t so much that the pain lessened as it was that the feeling of being beaten from the inside stopped--the pressure, the friction, the sudden breathtaking sharpness. He couldn’t quite seem to open his eyes, but he also couldn’t quite seem to pass out, so he felt the hands lifting him onto the rack, strapping him down tight. Agony spiked in his wrists and ankles--barbed wire again, it must’ve been. Another reason to hold as still as he could for whatever Alistair felt he deserved next.

A skewer, or maybe an ice pick--both favorite tools of Alistair’s, after the razor--shoved through his hip. Got caught on the bone, but Alistair shoved and shoved and shoved some more until it punched right through. More screaming--Dean couldn’t have held it back if he’d tried, and Alistair liked to hear it anyway--and then more yet as Alistair did . . . _something_ with that skewer. Ran electricity through it, maybe. Or maybe barbed it and ripped it out. Whatever it was, it _sucked_ , like, watching your own small intestine as it spilled from your gut kind of sucked. Dean screamed again, managed to work one more _Please_ and _I’m sorry_ into his wail.

And then, in a so-rare-as-to-be-unheard-of fit of mercy, Alistair actually let Dean’s world go dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violent assault and rape in this chapter.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back from my trip! Thank you so much for all the lovely comments and kudos. Now back to our regularly scheduled Dean torture ;-p

Dean was getting awfully fucking tired of waking in pain in a monster’s cage, but at least he knew where he was this time. No blinking to awareness, no struggling to remember if he’d really escaped Hell after all. He tried to look at that as one small mercy, but he honestly wasn’t sure Alexio’s basement was much better right now than God’s basement had been.

“You’re awake.”

Dean startled at the soft, too-close voice--Alexio was sitting at the foot of his fucking bed--then had to clench his teeth against a moan. He’d thought moving had hurt yesterday; he’d been wrong.

“Yeah,” he gasped out, because not responding would like as not have brought out the angry bull in Alexio again, and Dean damn well wouldn’t survive that. He blinked hard against the wetness in his eyes and was glad, for once, of the darkness he was lying in. 

So of course Alexio clapped the lights on. Dean squeezed his eyes closed and held very, very still, listening to see what Alexio would do next.

Nothing, it seemed. He didn’t move, and his voice was still soft when he said, “You’ve been asleep for eleven hours. You must be hungry.”

“Yeah,” Dean said again, because that was another fight he was absolutely not willing to get into now, and anyway his stomach rumbled loudly enough at the word “hungry” to give him away no matter what.

He waited for Alexio to get up, fetch him food, but the fucker was still just sitting there, close enough to touch Dean but blessedly not. Still made his skin crawl, though. 

Alexio sighed, and for half a second it triggered that panicked rabbit in Dean’s head again, until he realized it’d been a very  _ human  _ sounding sigh, and not a massive puff of air through a bull’s nostrils. “You know I don’t like hurting you, Dean.”

“I know.” Wasn’t even a lie. The guy was a monster and a psychopath, but even Dean could admit he wasn’t a sadist.

Silence, long and awkward. Maybe Alexio was waiting to be forgiven. Maybe he didn’t think he’d done anything to be forgiven  _ for _ . Fuck, maybe he was waiting for  _ Dean  _ to apologize.

Well, none of those things was gonna happen, so Dean just laid there, keeping his aching body still and letting his brain run. He’d expected to feel more . . . what, traumatized, maybe? . . . after what’d been done to him. Weirdly, all he really felt right now--aside from genuinely concerning quantities of pain, which could quit any fucking time now, thank you very much--was that strange soothing mental coolness that so often fell over him at the start of battle. He could see everything. Hear everything. Think ten moves ahead. Knew exactly what he had to do.

_ Play along. _

Because Alexio was truly, bugfuck nuts, and Dean couldn’t fight him alone without a weapon. Belligerence and snark had their place, but here wasn’t it, not anymore. He had to let Alexio think he’d broken Dean. Let Alexio think Dean had seen the error of his ways. And if that meant letting Alexio fuck him . . . well, the monster was gonna do it anyway, and at least this way Dean would be in shape to escape when the time came.

And his time  _ would  _ come. Soon.

Dean glanced up at Alexio. The guy had been sitting there watching him think this whole time, his face carefully blank, but he offered Dean a tiny smile when their gazes met.

“Soup?” Alexio asked. His eyes shifted to the table, where the crocks on yesterday’s tray had been replaced with thermoses. How long had he been sitting down here watching Dean sleep?

“Yeah.” Huh, he should . . . probably try saying more than just one word over and over again. “Chicken noodle?”

Alexio stood and fetched one of the thermoses, brought it back to Dean’s bed. Dean moved to sit, but froze up just a few inches off the mattress as pain spiked pretty much everywhere. Alexio rushed to help, gentle hands bearing Dean back to the bed, where he lay panting and blinking and waiting for it to pass.

His left shoulder hurt like he’d been stabbed several times, and he realized it was thickly bandaged. Remembered Alexio grabbing him, claws digging in deep, and jerking him like a rag doll. 

Alexio’s eyes followed Dean’s, and he said, sadly, “I had to put ten stitches in your shoulder. I’m not very good at it, I’m afraid, but I did the best I could. I think it may be sprained; I iced it while you slept. I can bring you more if you’d like?”

Dean wasn’t gonna say no to  _ anything  _ that might help dim the pain. Plus, it gave him an opening to ask for something else he’d need later. “Yeah, thank you. And can I have some extra pillows, maybe?”

“Of course.” Alexio practically leapt to his feet, he seemed so damn grateful to do something for Dean--or maybe to have Dean  _ ask  _ him for something. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

Yeah, no argument on that one. Well, a tiny argument, maybe; when Alexio turned away, Dean lifted his head just enough to see if he could make out the numbers Alexio was punching into the keypad on the cell door. But he couldn’t, not from his own bed; Alexio stood directly in front of the keypad as he used it.

So Dean let his head flop back to his pillow, then let out a long, low groan the moment Alexio left the room. Did his best to check himself for damage without causing more. His ribs were sore on the front left side where Alexio had slammed him over the table. A bandaged bite throbbed on his right shoulder blade, and long shallow claw marks pulled up and down his back as he shifted. He had a new feeding wound on his front right hip, if the bone-deep, rotten-tooth throbbing there was any indication. And holy shit his  _ ass _ . Because, yeah, whatever he’d felt yesterday had been  _ nothing  _ compared to the sharp raw burn today, the depth and breadth and heat of it, the way it drove up into his stomach like a railroad spike and spread tendrils out to his hips and down his legs and up his lower back with all the intensity of hundred-thousand-volt electric shocks. 

Thankfully, despite not having taken a shit yesterday, he felt no urge to do so now. Less than none, in fact, like, he couldn’t have done it if his life depended on it. Alexio had obviously cleaned him very carefully on the outside--he smelled like disinfectant soap again, and his wrists and ankles were re-bandaged, and all the blood was gone from his skin--so maybe he’d cleaned him on the inside too. The thought of that rapist fucker giving him an enema so as not to exacerbate the damage he’d done being a  _ violent _ rapist fucker should’ve horrified Dean, but at this point it was just one more indignity in a long, long line of them, and at least this one really had been for his benefit.

Unless Alexio had some kind of weird enema kink. Wouldn’t even surprise Dean at this point.

“I’m coming back down now, Dean,” Alexio said through the speakers, derailing Dean’s stray train of thought. Good to know how seriously Alexio was taking his promise to always give Dean notice; that’d be critical to his future escape plans.

Exactly 34 seconds later--just like last time, so probably there was only one microphone for the speakers and it wasn’t portable--Alexio was opening the outer door again. It took him four seconds to key in the code this time instead of three, but Dean figured it was because his arms were full of pillows now. Five of them, to be specific, which was definitely overkill, but whatever, Dean wasn’t about to complain. He didn’t even complain when Alexio gripped him gently by his good shoulder and helped him sit, then slid the pillows beneath him, one at a time, until Dean’s upper body was nearly vertical.

He needed a minute to get his shit together after that. The new angle put pressure on his ass and left him seeing stars for several long, agonizing seconds. Plus his shoulder and his ribs hurt, and that ice pack Alexio gave him was  _ cold _ . Plus Alexio kept his damn hand on Dean’s shoulder the whole time, clearly meaning to comfort, but all it did was make Dean want to claw his own damn skin off. Which meant he had to waste even  _ more  _ energy to pretend that wasn’t the case.

So it took him a good thirty seconds to get his breathing under control enough to say “Thanks” without sounding like he was gonna shatter apart.

“You’re very welcome, Dean.” Alexio was lit up like a friggin Christmas tree at Dean’s pretense of gratitude. Good. All going according to his on-the-fly plan. “Would you like that soup now?”

“Yes, please.”

Another smile out of Alexio at Dean’s unprompted  _ please _ . He reached down to retrieve the thermos from where he’d left it on the floor. Unscrewed the lid and poured hot soup into the cup, then passed it carefully to Dean, who took it with both hands because his fingers were shaking and hurt to use what with the bruising on his wrists.

He took a sip, and the instant the broth hit his tongue--rich and salty and bursting with flavor--he took a massive gulp, filled his mouth with bits of chicken and carrots and celery and noodles and just  _ savored  _ before swallowing.

Alexio was watching him expectantly, brows raised and hesitant smile turning his lips up at the corners, so Dean nodded and licked his lips and said, “S’ really good, Alexio, thank you.”

Alexio smiled wider and poured Dean some more soup. 

When Dean had worked his way through the entire thermos, Alexio fetched a glass of orange juice and three white pills off the tray, then handed them all to Dean.

Dean eyed the pills in his palm, then eyed Alexio. “Look, uh, I’m not trying to pick a fight--I’ll take them, I will--but . . . what are they?”

“Two Tylenol and an antibiotic. Don’t worry, you’re not sick--it’s prophylactic. I’d hate to take any chances with your health. Three days and then you can stop, all right?”

Dean shrugged and washed the pills down with his juice. Tylenol probably wouldn’t even come close to touching his hurts right now, but he wasn’t gonna turn away from it, or from the antibiotic. Not after the way Alexio had ripped him up.

Alexio’s expression flew right past pleased and into downright delighted at Dean’s easy compliance. When Dean finished his juice, Alexio asked, “Would you like anything else?”

Dean thought of those pies Alexio had baked, but the truth was he didn’t really want them. He wasn’t hungry after all that soup and juice, and he was too tired to pretend to be happy here, to pretend at enjoying his position as Alexio’s pampered pet. The best he could do was pretend at obedience. So he shook his head and said, “I’m tired,” and didn’t bother to hide his relief when Alexio simply nodded and stood and tucked the blankets back over his shoulders again.

“Sleep well, my precious human.” Alexio bent to kiss Dean on the forehead, and Dean made himself hold still for it, made himself not clench his jaw or squeeze his eyes closed, made himself not punch the fucker in the throat. 

Asked, instead, with all the hesitance and deference and worry he could force into his scream-roughened voice, “I know you gotta eat, but . . . Any chance you could skip tonight, Alexio? Please?” He threw in his best puppy dog eyes and added, “I don’t feel so good.”

Alexio straightened up, a little frown forming between his brows. He folded his arms across his chest, and Dean knew the answer before he even opened his mouth: “And whose fault is that, Dean?”

Dean felt his fury crease his face for an instant before he wrangled it under control and smoothed it away. Sighed, tried to look contrite. Reached a hand out from under his blanket to touch Alexio’s forearm, even though just the  _ thought  _ of skin to skin contact with the fucker made him wanna puke. “Mine. I know it’s mine. But please, Alexio, I’m begging you.”  _ Let me heal. I gotta get strong enough to get out of here.  _

Alexio looked like it pained him, but of course he said, “I’m sorry, Dean. I must feed. But not until tonight. Rest for now. I’ll be back later with lunch.”

Dean wanted to rage. He wanted to curse and spit and fight and tell Alexio where he could shove his  _ sorry _ . 

But he did none of those things. Couldn’t give in to the luxury of his rage until he’d lulled Alexio into a false sense of security he could exploit to escape.

And oh holy fuck was he ever gonna  _ absolutely fucking murder Alexio  _ on his way out.


	11. Chapter 11

Dean made himself sleep. Didn’t even have to try very hard; the pain and stress of his injuries pulled him under, and it was only dreams of them being inflicted that brought him back. But he kept rolling over and closing his eyes again, making himself recuperate. Bonus: he slept through large swaths of the worst of the pain.

When his bladder finally wouldn’t be ignored any longer, he dragged his sorry ass--and god was it ever  _ literally  _ sorry--out of bed to use the toilet and wash his hands and face at the sink. Moving his fingers sent sharp bolts of pain up his wrists, which he’d bet money he’d bruised right through the bone. Lifting his arms sent similar bolts through his punctured shoulder and along what was likely at least one cracked rib. He still felt like hammered shit, but at least he could walk. Running, well, that might be a different story, but he always healed quick. By the time he had what he needed to escape, he’d be able. Or at least he’d damn well make himself be.

The instant he shut the water off, Alexio’s voice came over the speakers. “Hello, Dean.” Pain jolted through Dean’s chest as surely as it had through his wrists and shoulders at the sound of that all-too-familiar affectionate greeting coming from that monstrous mouth. “Would you like some lunch?”

Dean turned to the clock: it was almost 3 pm. He wasn’t hungry but he knew he needed to eat to heal. Still, lunch would mean Alexio coming down here, and he wasn’t sure he was strong enough for that just now. 

On the other hand, he couldn’t afford to piss Alexio off. The guy wasn’t super good with  _ no _ .

But he sounded pretty laid back right now, so maybe?

“No thanks, Alexio,” Dean ventured as he limped toward his bed, then softened it with, “but I’d love some dinner in a couple hours if that’s all right?” 

Alexio’s pause was just long enough to make Dean sweat, even though he’d sat back on his mattress; he could practically hear the chiding  _ You have to eat, Dean _ radiating from the fucker’s brain. But in the end, Alexio just said, “A snack then, perhaps, from your stores? While I cook for you for later?”

Dean stood with a swallowed groan and a grimace he couldn’t keep off his face. “Sounds like a plan,” he managed, voice tight, as he made his way over to the bookshelf full of food.  _ See? Doing what you say like a good dog. _

So of course Alexio chimed in with, “Tylenol, perhaps?”

“No thanks.” Because he knew from this morning that it wouldn’t help for shit, and it wasn’t worth bringing Alexio down here for. “Sure wouldn’t mind some whiskey and Demerol, though.”

Dean rummaged through his food options as he waited through another long silence he couldn’t quite read, but at least this one didn’t make him nervous. Was Alexio seriously considering his request? If he felt guilty about what he’d done, Dean could play on that, take advantage of it. But if he tried and was wrong, he ran the very real risk of ending up right back where he’d been last night: pummeled by Alexio’s fury.

“I’ve already told you, Dean. No alcohol.” Chiding, not guilty. Damn it. “And I’m afraid I have no access to narcotics. Besides, you wouldn’t need them if you hadn’t fought so hard against the new purpose the gods have gifted you.” 

Fuck.  _ Definitely  _ not guilty.

“Yeah, uh. About that.” Dean turned his head to meet the gleaming black eye of the camera near the TV. Made himself put on his best contrite face and speak, rather than spit, bitter words--a skill he’d perfected over two decades of dealing with his father: “I’m sorry. I was scared, is all. It won’t happen again.” 

Not that he  _ ever  _ would’ve admitted he was scared to John, but it seemed like the smart choice this time, eager as Alexio was to play the  _ Erastes _ , the older wiser teacher-slash-protector.

“I understand, Dean. As long as it never happens again, all is forgiven.”

_ So generous, you magnanimous fuck.  _ Wow.

But out loud Dean just said, “It won’t. I promise.”

* * *

Like hell it wouldn’t happen again. If Dean had his way, it’d happen as soon as tomorrow. He played his plan over in his head as he gnawed his way through some grass-fed, free-range organic beef jerkey--apparently Alexio’s conscientiousness extended to his food source’s food sources. He followed it up with a granola bar and then crawled back into bed, exhausted just by the act of standing and chewing. Which . . . did not bode well for an escape attempt tomorrow, but it wasn’t like he was gonna get any better than he was now if he kept letting Alexio suck out his bone marrow and beat his ass inside and out.

He woke to Alexio’s voice over the speakers, a gentle calling of his name until he he rubbed at his eyes and sat up enough to clap the lights on and eye the nearest camera. “Whasit?” he asked, but snapped abruptly awake when Alexio said he was coming down with dinner.

Thirty-four seconds again to reach the door, four seconds again to unlock it with his hands full. Like clockwork--good. Dean made use of the time by grabbing his blanket and a couple pillows and stacking them--and himself--on the bed in the other cell. 

Alexio looked taken aback when he realized Dean’s cell was empty, but that lasted only a moment as his eyes scanned the room and found Dean propped up in the other bed. 

“Is your mattress not comfortable?” He offered Dean a smile as he keyed himself into the cage, tray balanced in his free hand, but it looked a little strained.

“S’fine. I’m just beat, is all.”  _ Literally,  _ thanks to you, you fuck. “Wanna eat in bed but don’t wanna get crumbs in the one I sleep in.”

_ Please buy it please buy it please buy it please-- _

“Ah.” The strain fell away from Alexio’s smile, though a hint of worry took its place. “I should check your wounds.”

Dean bit back an  _ I’m fine  _ and also a  _ Stay the fuck away from me, asshole _ . Said nothing instead because there was no way he was gonna suggest Alexio putting hands on him was a good idea. Not to mention he was absolutely sure it was gonna hurt, and he’d had enough of that shit for one day. Fuck, one  _ life _ .

Alexio nodded once as if Dean had actually agreed with him, then brought the tray to the bed Dean was lounging in and set it down carefully. Next he set himself down, tipping the drink on the tray as the mattress dipped beneath his considerable weight. Too-fast hands prevented an accident, and he smiled sheepishly at Dean as he righted the plastic cup and re-settled the tray. 

“I’ll let you eat first. I made beef stew; we wouldn’t want it to get cold.”

A bitter come-back rose to Dean’s tongue, but he swallowed it. Washed it down with the stew Alexio handed him, and forgot for a fraction of a second what being angry even felt like as the taste hit his tongue.

“You know,” he said around a second mouthful he shoveled in before he’d even finished swallowing the first, “for a guy who only eats one thing, you sure can cook.”

Alexio looked happy enough to clasp his hands together and gasp. “I do eat,” he said through an eye-crinkling grin. “Your foods fail to sustain me, but done well, they bring me much pleasure.” Dean scarfed down another mouthful of tender (organic, grass-fed, free range) beef and carrots and potatoes and onions and whatever else made this so awesome, and Alexio added, “And you too, I see. Your pleasure pleases me so much more than my stew ever could.”

Ugh, creepy. Kinda made Dean lose his appetite, but he knew better than to pass up opportunities for high-quality fuel. Besides, it was really fucking good. 

Except . . . “You gonna eat when I’m done?” He put his spoon down, lowered the bowl a little. “Cos, not gonna lie, it’d be really upsetting to puke a meal this good right back up.”

Predictably, Alexio’s smile faded. “If you promise not to fight me later, I’ll wait two hours. Give you time to digest your food.”

Dean took another big bite of stew. “I won’t fight you.” No hesitation, no fear, no hint of any emotion at all. Broken-Dean wouldn’t even  _ consider  _ fighting Alexio again, would take it as absolute fact that he’d do as he was told.

And there, of course, came Alexio’s smile again. He reached a hand out toward Dean’s head, and even though the monster was grinning, Dean couldn’t help but flinch back. Frankly it was a miracle he didn’t try to break the guy’s arm on instinct. But Alexio didn’t seem surprised that Dean ducked out of the way, and just reached a little further--tall guy,  _ long  _ arms--to pet Dean’s hair. Like some kind of fucking dog. “I’m very glad to hear that, Dean. Eat now. Relax.” He dropped his hand, and Dean could breathe again. Reached into his pocket and came out with a familiar single-serve packet of Tylenol. “Take these. If you need anything else, call me. I’ll leave you to rest for now.”

Yeah, cos he was gonna get so much resting done knowing how brutally he’d be tortured in two hours. Super relaxing. Pretty much the best-case scenario at this point was that Alexio wouldn’t fuck him again after literally eating him.

Alexio stood from the bed, jiggling the cup on the tray again. This time Dean steadied it. Milk, of all the fucking things, like he was some growing boy who needed his calcium to get big and strong. 

_ More like you’re a monster pincushion who needs his calcium to stop your bones from shattering when he punches holes in them.  _

Dean picked up the Tylenol and swallowed them with a long pull from his milk. Alexio headed to the door of the other cell, and Dean pretended to be very interested in finishing his stew while Alexio keyed himself first out of the cage, then out of the room. From Dean’s new angle in the other bed, so far off to the side from the door, he could just make out the numbers Alexio punched into the keypad for the main room:

_ 6397 enter. _

At least he  _ thought  _ it was a 7. Might’ve been a 4, or an 8. The far side of the keypad was obscured just enough by Alexio’s body and hand that he wasn’t yet ready to stake his life on it.

Well, Alexio was coming back again tonight, which meant he’d be leaving again tonight. If Dean could convince Alexio not to strap him down, and if he could keep his head enough right after the extraction--both pretty damn big ifs, even he had to admit--he’d have a second chance to confirm that number. 

A second chance to make sure this was the last night he’d  _ ever  _ spend in a cell in Alexio’s basement.


	12. Chapter 12

He fucking slept again. Hadn’t meant to, but Jesus he was tired--fell asleep right in the bed he’d eaten dinner in. It was starting to get concerning the way he couldn’t seem to keep his eyes open, but he was on antibiotics and he didn’t feel feverish, so he was sticking with the harmless-wear-and-tear-that-could-be-fixed-with-enough-sleep theory unless and until something happened to unseat it.

At least this time he’d only slept for about an hour and a half--he had thirty minutes, give or take, to get his shit together before Alexio came to feed.

He pretended to stretch, half-wake, roll over and fall back to sleep, just in case Alexio was watching. Until he was as certain as certain could be about the door code, there wasn’t much he could do but endure. Survive. And that took hope. So he lay there in the dark pretending to sleep, and prayed in silence.

_ Heya Cas. So, uh, you still probably can’t hear this, but shit’s getting ugly, man. I wish you were here--I mean, not that I wish you were going through this too, or having to watch it or whatever. Just . . . I need you, man, and not just cos you’re badass. And yeah, yeah, I know you’re human now, but you’re still totally a badass. You’re a damn good hunter, and a strong fighter, and, like, Sammy-level smart. And the best friend I ever had, so . . . If you  _ can  _ hear this . . . Come find me, man. Come bust in here with Sammy and bring me a blessed bronze sword wrapped in string so I can kill this motherfucker. Then take me home and just . . . stay this time, yeah? Even just for a little while? Please? _

Hah. Yeah. Like he deserved any of that shit. Like Cas would ever wanna stay with him  _ now _ , after he’d thrown him out at his most vulnerable, when the guy hadn’t even bothered to stick around after they’d saved the fucking world together, like, three times already.

Still, no denying it was a comfort to imagine--a future with Cas in the bunker, with Cas by his side (and Sam’s too, of course) ganking baddies. Cas fighting his battles  _ with  _ Dean instead of popping off to god knew where for god knew how long without even explaining himself or asking for help when he needed it or . . .

Yeah, maybe this line of thought wasn’t so comforting after all. He was getting all worked up just  _ thinking  _ of how many times Cas had left him high and dry, how many times he’d fucked off and then fucked up--sometimes just hurting himself, sometimes fucking up the entire fucking  _ world _ \--because he hadn’t been able to trust Dean enough to loop him in. 

And now Cas was human, and Dean was currently playing the role of monster kibble-slash-fleshlight, and maybe none of any of this bullshit woulda happened if they’d just found a way to stick together somehow.

Well, he could cross that bridge if and when he had a chance to look it in its stupid too-blue eyes again. But for now he just had to make it to tomorrow in one piece.

Alexio hadn’t bothered him yet, so he took advantage to get one more prayer out of the way.

_ Yo, Zeke, I’m sure Sam’s got you real busy going on jogs and eating organic baby spinach and shit, but if you could maybe give me a minute of your time, I sure could use your help. Dunno if you noticed, man, but I’m kinda dying in here. Like, literally being eaten alive, and it fucking  _ sucks _ , so if maybe you could unfuck your feathery shit and come get me? Yeah, that’d be awesome, kay, thanks. _

Maybe not the most eloquent or respectful prayer he’d ever sent, but seriously,  _ fuck that guy _ . Where the fuck was he? What was taking so long? No way this place was warded against angels, so if Zeke hadn’t found him yet, Dean pretty much had no choice but to conclude it was because he didn’t  _ want  _ to.

Which, wow. What a fucking  _ dick _ . They were gonna have some motherfucking  _ words  _ when he got free.

But for now he pushed that anger--and the raw hurt of his abandonment--down into the lead box in his brain where they belonged. Took the next however many minutes he had left to steel himself for what was to come. Not that you could ever get used to having the marrow sucked from your bones, but at least there were walls in his head he could put up, pep talks he could give himself, breathing exercises he could do--ways his dad had taught him to disassociate just enough to stay conscious, stay sane, keep his shit together long enough to get the job done.

His mind was calm and almost entirely quiet when Alexio said through the speakers, “Dean? I’m coming downstairs now, Dean.”

He rolled over to watch the clock, but didn’t respond. Wasn’t like Alexio was waiting for his permission anyway.

Thirty-seven seconds, as expected, from the time of Alexio’s announcement to the time he got the outer door open. Alexio clapped the lights on, and didn’t seem at all surprised this time to realize Dean wasn’t in his own bed--probably because he’d watched him fall asleep in the other one. He let himself into the cage, strode right through Dean’s half and into the other half where Dean was currently curled up on his side. Leaned down to brush a hand, then a kiss, across the crown of Dean’s head.

Dean shuddered but held still.

“It’s time,” Alexio near-whispered, softness and regret atop an underlying eagerness and hunger. 

“M’so tired,” Dean mumbled, and then, before Alexio could think him argumentative, added, “can we do it here?”

If Alexio strapped him to the table in his own cell, he’d never be able to free himself in time to confirm the door code. He doubted even the table in this cell was far enough over to the side to give him the viewing angle he needed. Had to be here, in this bed, or nothing.

Alexio shook his head, then sat on the edge of the bed and laid a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “I can’t secure you here. You’ll hurt yourself.”

Dean stuck his forearms out from under the blanket, drawing Alexio’s attention to the bandages on his wrists. “Already hurt. Ankles too. Felt like barbed wire last time you strapped me down.” Alexio grimaced. Good. “I promise I’ll hold still.”

“You can’t. It’s not possible. I’ll carry you to the table, Dean, you don’t have to walk.”

Dean drew his arms back under the blanket, tried to make himself look simultaneously as pathetic and as stubborn as possible. “You don’t know me. I can do it.” Alexio looked like he was seriously considering the truth of his headstrong human’s words, so Dean pressed. Said, voice still soft like he was too wiped to speak at normal volume, “My dad used to make me stand in the corner while he whipped me with his belt. Got real good at holding still.” 

Ah, yes, behold the power of the sob story. It was only a little true--John only ever did that when Dean’s weakness had fucked up a hunt (and, okay, sometimes when he was drunk and pissed, but whatever)--but clearly the idea of it was melting Alexio’s heart. He stroked a hand through Dean’s hair again. Dean swallowed his revulsion and leaned into the touch, let Alexio think Dean was finding real comfort in it. 

“I’m so sorry you had to go through that, Dean.”

Whatever. Not like he hadn’t deserved it, and it was long over now in any case. “S’fine. I only told you so you know I can take it. But if you tie me up tonight, my hands might never work again.” He slid said hands out from under the blanket to let Alexio get another good look, then rested them on Alexio’s knee, which was propped up on the mattress by Dean’s shoulder. Alexio’s resolve faltered further at the touch, and Dean knew he’d won.

Awesome. Now all he had to do was . . . actually hold still. Oh, and not pass out. Cos sure, he’d long ago learned to stay still and quiet through a few dozen lashes from a flimsy strip of leather, but an extraction was a whole other  _ universe  _ of suck.

Dean was naked under the blanket, so it was easy enough--physically, anyway--to let Alexio arrange him on his back. The blanket Alexio wrapped tightly around Dean’s legs, presumably to stop him from flailing, and the pillow ended up on the floor. There was no instrument tray here, so Alexio emptied his pockets onto the mattress by Dean’s head.

And for once, Dean was really and truly  _ not panicking _ . Because yeah, this was gonna blow fucking chunks, but he knew what to expect now, knew how to steel himself, and when it was over he’d keep his shit together and confirm the code. Which meant this would be the last feeding he’d ever have to endure. Which made it almost . . . easy.

Alexio must’ve noticed his calm, because he stroked Dean’s head again, slid his hand down until he was cupping Dean’s cheek, and smiled that perpetual smile at him. “You’re being very brave today, Dean. I’m so proud of you.”

Instead of showing Alexio the many and varied orifices into which he could shove his stupid fucking pride, Dean leaned into the touch and smiled shyly and said, “Thank you. I’m trying, I promise.”

“I know. Now--” Alexio took his hand back to pull his sterile gloves on, then opened the first iodine packet and swabbed a new spot on Dean’s left hip. He opened the second one and repeated the process, then pulled the biopsy needle from its packaging. “I’m going to help you keep still, Dean. Fold your arms across your chest for me.” He flashed a little smile and added, “Like Dracula.”

Dean did as he was told. He knew where this was going, wasn’t surprised at all when Alexio stood up only to re-settle himself across Dean’s thighs, then wrapped one enormous hand around both of Dean’s wrists (above the bandages, thankfully) and pressed them hard against his sternum. He was strong enough to control Dean’s arms  _ and  _ torso that way, and heavy enough to keep his legs pinned with his weight. Which left him one free hand to manage the extraction with. 

It sucked, obviously. Dean bucked up against the brick wall that was Alexio’s body, fought against the hold on his arms--so much for staying still, eh?--panted and screamed and scrabbled for the needle when Alexio was forced to let go of Dean’s wrists to screw the syringe on. A few seconds of fruitless wrestling later, Alexio had Dean’s arms pinned beneath his knees, the syringe attached to the needle, and his hand back to crushing Dean’s sternum against the mattress.

Between the bone puncture and that awful sucking sensation and the pressure near his busted rib making it impossible to breathe, Dean couldn’t cling to consciousness quite as firmly as he’d hoped to.

But at least he came back to his senses in time, reaching up to swipe at moisture on his face . . . and realized that his arms were free. Alexio was stroking gentle fingers up and down Dean’s flank--a touch he didn’t even register until he saw it happening--and sucking marrow from the syringe with nauseating relish.

He pulled the tip from his mouth when Dean moaned, and the hand on his flank stroked up his chest to cup his neck. “Back with me now?”

Dean just blinked. Didn’t trust himself to speak yet.

“I knew this was a bad idea. Did I hurt you?” The hand on his neck slid down to ghost over his left side, the cracked rib. “You’re quite bruised here, I’m afraid I might’ve made it worse.”

Dean blinked again, felt a single tear track down his temple. Shook his head. Didn’t want to give Alexio any reason to keep touching him, to look him over or try to nurse him or whatever bullshit might keep the guy around. Or worse, turn the rapist fucker on. Because damage Alexio couldn’t easily see was damage the rapist fuck could easily ignore, and Dean wouldn’t even be able to  _ crawl  _ out of here tomorrow, let alone run, if Alexio decided to fuck him again tonight. 

_ Just finish your damn meal and get out of here so I can confirm the fucking code. Please.  _ Please.

Alexio stared for another few seconds, but then seemed to take Dean’s denial at face value. He finished the few teaspoons of marrow in the syringe, then walked to the sink on Dean’s half of the cage to fetch him a glass of water. Helped him sit just enough to swallow two more Tylenol, then retrieved his pillow and blanket and tucked him back in. Dean curled on his side, positioned perfectly to see the keypad, and blew out a massive breath of relief. If Alexio was covering him up so carefully, then odds were good he had no intentions of  _ un _ covering him anytime soon.

“Would you like me to carry you to your own bed?”

_ His  _ bed. Hah. Dean shook his head. “Hurts to move,” he added, just in case Alexio decided to forget the meaning of the word  _ no  _ again.

“All right.” Another hand in his hair, another gentle kiss to the crown of his head. “Sleep well, my sweet human. I’ll be down first thing with breakfast, and if you need me in the night, just call.”

Dean let his eyes blink closed. Nestled down into his pillow and sighed out a soft, “Kay. Thanks, Alexio.” Tried not to let on how fucking  _ relieved  _ he was.

He popped his eyes back open the second Alexio turned around. Tracked him as he walked through both cells and to the door. As he keyed in the code to leave.

_ 6397 enter.  _ Definitely a 7. Like, 99% sure it was a 7.

Sure enough, anyway. Sure enough to stake his life on being right.


	13. Chapter 13

But Dean wasn’t staking his life just yet. He could’ve tried first thing in the morning, but he was confident enough that Alexio would leave him be until dinner that it made sense to get as much rest as he could before making his break. Take as much time as possible to get into something resembling fighting shape.

So he let Alexio bring him breakfast in bed--today it was oatmeal with milk and fresh berries, whole grain toast with almond butter and bananas, six strips of bacon, and a carafe of strong coffee. Damn, he was gonna miss eating this way when he got outta here.

He polished off his tray, happily swallowed the antibiotic and Tylenol Alexio gave him for dessert, and then settled down to sleep, still in the bed in the far cell. For extra security, he watched Alexio leave again and confirmed the code before naptime. Slept straight through to lunch, only waking to Alexio’s announcement that he was coming downstairs.

“Hey, uh, Alexio?” he asked the camera before the guy could get too far from the microphone.

“Yes, Dean?”

He sat up, let the blanket pool around his waist so he could gesture at his bare torso. “I don’t suppose you might bring me my clothes back? I promise I’ll take them right off when you tell me to.”

_ Come on, asshole, I need my damn shoes to escape.  _ He’d streak naked outta here if he had to, but streaking barefoot would  _ suck _ . 

“I suppose you’ve earned them back,” Alexio said. “I’ll bring them down with lunch.”

Huh. Nice. “Thanks, man, I really appreciate that.”

As promised, Alexio came down with Dean’s clothes in a reusable grocery bag, handles slung over the arm holding Dean’s lunch tray. Dean let Alexio bring them to him in the far bed so he could confirm how long it took the guy to cross the two cells. 

Seven seconds. With that stride length and no-bullshit pacing? Seven lousy seconds. Which meant it’d probably only take him three seconds to run back in the other direction once he realized what was happening.

Alexio, oblivious as he was to Dean’s escape plans, was smiling--of  _ course  _ he was--as he approached Dean. “I made you pizza,” he said, sitting down on the bed beside Dean and placing the tray between them. “Whole grain crust, homemade tomato sauce, fresh mozzarella, and I grow the basil in the windowsill.” 

It was also covered in green shit--broccoli and mushrooms and peppers and whatever, all the same stuff Sammy loved to ruin perfectly good pizzas with--but Dean sucked it up and said, “Thank you, looks awesome,” and grabbed a slice while Alexio unpacked Dean’s bag of clothes.

Alexio beamed at him, but didn’t try to touch him, so Dean sat there and ate until he was full and let Alexio watch and resolutely didn’t scowl or put more space between them or do anything else that might give him away.

He even managed to keep his expression neutral when Alexio handed him a bundle of folded clothes and said, “Go ahead, put them on. I laundered them for you, of course.”

Because  _ of course  _ Alexio was gonna make Dean stand up, buck naked, and get dressed while he watched. 

Well, it beat the alternative, Dean supposed. Way better than Alexio making Dean stand up, fully clothed, and get buck naked while he watched.

Getting dressed hurt--his hips and ass were mercilessly sore beneath the jeans, his busted rib and punctured shoulder stabbed at him every time he shifted his arms, and his fingers barely worked--but god was it ever worth it. Until this week, he’d never even slept naked; naked was vulnerable, naked was a step behind the bad guy, naked was being exposed to far too much unwanted attention. But this--socks, shoes, jeans, shirt, flannel--was soft, familiar armor. He literally felt stronger between one moment and the next, never mind that nothing had changed but a few layers of fabric.

And shoes. Thank god Alexio had brought him his shoes.

He stood before Alexio and held his arms out like he was about to do a little twirl. Showing off for the fucker. “Eh?” Alexio grinned, nodded. “Thanks again, Alexio.”

“You’re very welcome, Dean.” Alexio stood from the bed, took a single step toward Dean, like maybe he was planning to strip those clothes right back off. Dean swallowed hard but stood rooted, and then Alexio didn’t come any closer anyway. Just clapped a hand on Dean’s unbandaged shoulder and added, “You look quite handsome. The jeans especially become you.”

Yeah, because it wouldn’t be a day in Alexio’s basement without getting his ass ogled.

“Uh. Thanks.” He took a step toward the bed. Another one. “Look, uh, I’m just gonna . . .” He sat down. Pulled the blanket up over his lap. “. . . digest my meal, okay? M’tired.”

Alexio nodded solemnly. “Would you like me to fetch you a book?”

Actually . . . “Yeah, that’d be great, thanks.  _ Sirens of Titan,  _ maybe?”

Alexio brought him the book he’d asked for, gave him a no-longer-unexpected kiss on the head, and mercifully let him be.

Dean read. The book, like his clothes, was a familiar comfort--one that would keep him awake until dinner (and, more crucially, escape) without overtaxing his strained mind. He took breaks every half hour or so to get up, walk around awhile, keep his muscles warm and limber. Recited  _ 6397  _ in his head as he paced, visualized their position on the keypad. 

He could do this. He could outrun Sam, even despite the three (okay, four) inch height advantage the kid had on him. He’d have a six-second head start while Alexio crossed both cells and keyed his way out of the cage. Maybe even an extra second or two while Alexio figured out what was happening--but Dean wasn’t gonna count on that. So, six seconds. It wasn’t much, but all Dean needed to do was get up the stairs and out the door. Alexio wouldn’t risk making a scene on his front lawn--he couldn’t risk someone looking out the window or calling the cops if Dean started screaming for help. 

Well, unless he had no neighbors. But he’d mentioned them before, and he lived close enough to civilization to fetch all kinds of shit Dean’d asked for in a matter of hours, which probably meant he lived in a suburb. Besides, there was nothing Dean could do at this point but count on neighbors being there, unless he got lucky enough to snag a cell phone or a set of car keys on his mad dash outside. 

And let’s be real, he was a Winchester. Winchesters were  _ never  _ that lucky.

* * *

Dean settled back into the far bed around 5:30, clapped the lights out, and pretended to sleep. He had no idea when Alexio would be coming down for dinner, but he was ready. Wide awake. Downright wired, actually.  _ 6397 _ : center right, bottom right, top right, top left. Six second head start. Six whole seconds. Flat out, in top health, he could run fifty meters in six seconds. Of course he’d have to tiptoe the first five meters, give or take, then stop to unlock a door, and then he’d have to run up stairs, but still . . . 

He could do it. He  _ had  _ to do it.

Sure could use some help, though.

_ Heya Cas. Listen, I’m gonna be trying something soon. Might be stupid. Might be downright suicidal. But by now I gotta figure you and Sammy ain’t coming for me--can’t find me or, I dunno, maybe you’re so damn mad at me you ain’t even looking. Sam would hate me too, if he knew the truth about Zeke. Maybe he found out and he ain’t looking either. I don’t blame either one of you, but I’m getting weaker by the day in here. I gotta try to get out on my own. _

_ So, uh. I dunno why I keep praying to you, buddy. You don’t wanna hear it, I’m sure. You probably  _ can’t  _ hear it, not anymore. But I . . . To be perfectly honest, I’m scared, man. Scared fucking shitless. I don’t got a whole lotta time, and if I  _ don’t  _ get away, if Alexio catches me . . . I don’t know what he’ll do, but I know it won’t be pretty. So, uh, I know God ain’t never done shit for us, but he  _ does  _ keep bringing you back, so maybe he likes you, you know? And maybe . . . maybe you could pray to him for me? Ask him to help me help myself, just this once? _

_ Heh, yeah. You’re right--this is stupid. I’m being stupid. And I shouldn’t have asked that of you, not after . . . well, you know. Anyway, I guess I just wanna let you know I’m, uh, I’m thinking about you, and I miss you and Sammy something fierce, and if I don’t make it outta here . . . if I don’t . . . I, uh, I’m sorry. I’m so,  _ so  _ sorry, Cas. And I l-- You’re like a brother to me. An honorary Winchester. I just wanted you to know that. _

* * *

The clock glowed 6:30 through the darkness when Alexio announced he was bringing Dean dinner. 

“Hey, uh,” Dean croaked out before Alexio could leave the mic, making himself sound as scratchy and pathetic as possible. “Would you mind not turning the lights on when you come down? I got a migraine the size of Texas.”

A beat during which Dean worried that Alexio had already left, that he’d missed his window. But then, “I’m so sorry you’re not feeling well, but I can’t see in the dark, Dean.”

“Flashlight?” Dean suggested. “If you keep it pointed at the floor, you’ll be able to see where you’re going and the light won’t get in my eyes. Pretty please, Alexio?”

_ Come on come on come on come on . . . _

Another beat, longer than the last. Then, finally, “All right, I think I can manage that. I’m guessing you aren’t up to a heavy meal; should I make you some soup instead? Tomato rice?”

He didn’t want to put this off one second longer, but if he said no, Alexio might get suspicious. So, “That’d be great, thanks. S’really thoughtful of you.”

“It’s my pleasure, Dean, truly. I’ll let you know when it’s ready. Until then, rest well, my dear human.”

Ugh. Well, at least that’d be the last time he’d ever have to listen to Alexio’s degrading pet names. 

He lay there in the dark, waiting. Staring at the keypad, glowing a soft green beside the main door, burning the shape of  _ 6397 enter  _ into his retinas. Waiting some more. How friggin long did it take to heat up some soup? Unless the guy was making it from scratch, which, let’s be real, wouldn’t surprise Dean one bit.

_ Come on come on come on come on . . .  _

Dean was getting antsy enough to hear his father’s voice in his head:  _ Calm your damn tits, son. Stakeouts take time. You don’t stop squirming, I’ll make you spend the whole damn night crouched behind this bush without a bathroom break, you hear me? _

Yes sir.

Ten thousand years later (okay, fourteen minutes, but still), Alexio was on the speakers again. “Soup’s up, Dean. I’m coming down.”

Dean gave Alexio five endless seconds to get away from the monitor (thirty-two seconds left), then bolted upright. Clapped the lights on and hastily stuffed pillows under the blankets until the lump on the bed roughly resembled Dean curled up on his side (twenty-three seconds left). Then ran back to his own cage and climbed up the locked door, clinging to the little section of bars above it like a sad, trembling gargoyle (twelve seconds left). He almost fell when he hooked his elbows through the bars to free his hands up to clap the lights back off (six seconds left), but thankfully he wasn’t  _ that  _ far gone. Weak, but not yet useless.

Heck, he’d even made it with a few seconds to spare.

He took the time to close his eyes in the pitch-black, focus his mind, calm his frantic heart and silence his breathing. Alexio opened the outer door ( _ 6397 enter, 6397 enter, 6397 enter _ ), and true to his word, he was carrying a flashlight and pointing the beam at the ground in front of his feet.

Dean held his breath. Waited. Jesus Christ, this might actually work.

Alexio balanced the tray in his free hand, brought the hand holding the flashlight to the keypad, and stuck out one finger far enough to punch in the unlock numbers. As he opened the door and stepped through it, Dean lowered himself down into the space behind Alexio as quickly and quietly as he could.

This was where it was all most likely to go to shit, but thankfully Alexio didn’t hear Dean over his own commotion of readjusting the tray and stepping forward, and by the time Alexio had turned around to close the door behind him, Dean was already on other side of it, off to the left just enough to keep his boots out of the cone of Alexio’s flashlight beam.

Safe, for now. 

The instant Alexio turned away to head deeper into the cage, Dean shuffled as quietly as he could toward the keypad. Thank god it was still glowing that soft green, or god knows what shit he might’ve stumbled over on the way to it. 

“Dean,” Alexio called, soft and gentle, from somewhere maybe near the bed in his cell. “Dean?”

Obviously, Dean did not answer. He was too busy inching toward the main door. 

“Dean?” Alexio sounded worried now. Lifted his flashlight to shine it on Dean’s bed. Dean held his breath while Alexio moved the beam from one end of the bed to the other, then pointed it through the bars to the other cage, to the other bed, to the pillows arranged beneath the blanket to look like a body. “Dean? Answer me, Dean. Are you all right?”

Alexio started walking toward the other bed, and Dean started moving again too. Reached the keypad. He’d only managed to punch in the 6 when he heard Alexio rip the blanket off the bed and shout--no,  _ roar _ \--his outrage. 

Dean’s fingers shook as he hit the 3. Alexio clapped the lights on and Dean went suddenly, violently blind. Heard another bone-chilling roar behind him, too-fast footfalls on the tile as he felt for the 9, blinking furiously to make his eyes adjust.

Froze, for a microsecond, at the screeching rend of metal and realized,  _ holy fucking shit _ , Alexio had just  _ ripped the entire fucking door off its hinges. _

“ _ DEEEEEAN! _ ”

So much for those three seconds.  _ Fuck.  _

Dean frantically blinked the spots away, hit 7 and then enter with a hand shaking far worse than it should’ve been, darted through the door and then slammed it shut behind him before bolting up the basement stairs. That lock might not buy him more than a second, but . . .

Sure enough, he heard  _ that  _ door being ripped from its hinges too, followed by a roar that nearly froze him as surely as a spill in an icy lake.

But he gritted through it. Took the stairs three at a time and plowed through the door at the top. 

Into a kitchen--sparing a tiny fraction of his awareness to look for a cell phone, a set of car keys, finding none--across the room, into a dining room, the  _ thud thud thud  _ of powerful footsteps racing behind him, closer, closer . . .

Dean skidded through an archway into a hall, eyes darting both ways,  _ front door front door where the fuck are--  _ Ah hah! He threw his momentum left, chest heaving, arms pumping, lungs rasping as he poured every last drop of strength into his sprint for the door. 

Almost there. Reaching out, hand on the knob--

When a fucking  _ steam roller  _ plowed into him from behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick thank you to all you lovely readers who've been so incredibly generous with your kudos and comments--it means SO much to me, so thank you thank you thank you <3


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because you folks left SO MANY insanely lovely comments on the last chapter, and cliffies are mean, here's a super-quick update ;D Next one might not be til mid-week, though.

Consciousness sucked the fucking hairy old-man nut.

Which was probably why Dean was fighting it so hard. Christ, his ribs hurt. And his head. And it didn’t help that someone was tapping--or maybe slapping--him on the cheek. Calling his name. Angry, disappointed.

So, Dad then. Whatever he’d done, however he’d fucked up this time, it must’ve been a real doozie. Ten bucks said he had a whipping coming once Sammy went to sleep tonight.

“M’head hurts,” he said without thinking when that hand connected too hard with his face again. Considered opening his eyes, dismissed it as a terrible idea. Tried to reach for the hand, instead. Couldn’t move, but holy hell did his wrists and shoulder hurt for trying.  _ What the fuck?  _ “Dad, please . . .”

“Wake  _ up _ , Dean.”

That . . . did not sound like Dad. 

Dean’s eyes popped open. Squeezed instantly closed again as pain shrieked through his head. The negative image of . . . cell bars? . . . danced behind his clenched lids and he--

Remembered.

Alexio. Escape attempt. Reaching the front door and then . . .  _ boom _ . Lights out.

_ No. No no no no no no no no  _ no _! _

“Just get it over with and kill me.” Eyes still closed. He was sitting up on a hard surface, legs out in front of him and strapped down, arms tied to . . . armrests? Head rolling against cool metal, forehead throbbing. And he was fucking  _ naked  _ again, right down to his bare feet.

“Why on Earth would I  _ kill  _ you, Dean? You’re far too important to me. Now be a good boy-- _ for once _ \--and open your eyes, or I’ll do it for you.”

That sounded sufficiently ominous for Dean to brave the light again. He cracked his eyes open, just a sliver this time. The left one was caked with blood, probably from whatever was causing that incessant throbbing below his hairline. Still let the light in, though--felt like the damn brightness was prying his eyes open  _ Clockwork Orange _ -style and stabbing his optic nerve repeatedly with a filleting knife.

_ Concussion.  _ Must’ve slammed his head into the front door when Alexio barreled into him from behind.

“S’too bright,” he croaked, eyes still slitted near to shut. At least Alexio had stopped slapping him. Why couldn’t he move his hands?

“The lights are already on dim,” Alexio snapped. “I won’t be turning them off again. Maybe ever. I’d say you’ve lost that privilege, wouldn’t you?”

“Gonna be sick. Please, Alexio . . .” 

The fucker must’ve planned for this, because next Dean knew there was a trash can held up to his face, and he ducked his chin over it and hurled until he thought the pressure in his head would literally pop his eyes from his skull. Alexio didn’t touch his shoulder, rub his back, tell him it was going to be okay. Just held the trash can in silence while Dean was reduced to a whimpering, gasping wreck. Waited until he was done spitting up and then took away the trash can, replaced it with a wet cloth dragged roughly across Dean’s mouth and then a Dixie cup of water held to his lips.

“Drink,” Alexio demanded. Tipped it back so Dean could sip until it was gone. “I almost gored you by instinct, you know.” Sharp, furious. “Humans run, minotaurs chase. If I’d killed you . . .”

Dean finally managed to pry his eyes all the way open without splatting his melon on the metaphoric sidewalk. It sucked, but he’d live. Unfortunately. Alexio’s scowling--but very human-looking--face swam into focus, and Dean stared him down, dead in the eye. “You should’ve. Better dead than another fucking _ second  _ here.”

Especially since he’d realized where he was: in his cell on the steel operating table, which apparently had an adjustable back--Alexio had Dean sitting almost fully upright, the straps around his chest and waist, thighs and ankles holding him fast. The table’s wings had also been rotated to make the armrests Dean’s wrists were currently strapped to.

Alexio looked  _ almost  _ as miserable as Dean felt, which he supposed was some kind of victory, at least. And another kind of victory, for whatever it was worth, that Alexio dropped his gaze first.

But he remained silent.

“So,” Dean said, forced casual like he really  _ didn’t  _ have a headache the size of Texas, like he really  _ wasn’t  _ sure the answer to his next question was  _ yes _ . “Is this the part where you break both my ankles with a sledgehammer?”

Alexio reared back, brows furrowed deep, but he still said, “Don’t think I haven’t thought about it.”

Actually, given that reaction, Dean was pretty sure he hadn’t. Or at least that he’d never seriously considered it, anyway. Which was reassuring, he supposed: not dead, not gonna get maimed. And violent rape was old hat at this point. Which meant all the worst shit was already off the table. Whatever remained he could survive. Recover from. He’d be fine.

Alexio reached out to touch Dean’s arm, pulled his hand back at the last second and balled it into a fist. His face did that frankly fucking terrifying thing where it wavered between human and  _ not _ , and for a moment Dean saw a snout and way too many teeth, but then Alexio was just Alexio again, wearing his human mask. 

“I thought we’d reached an understanding, Dean.”

The fucker had the nerve to sound devastated. Like Dean’s escape attempt had been some kind of personal betrayal. Like he’d broken the monster’s heart. Dean didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer, just clenched his jaw and stared the fucker down again.

“Whatever am I to do with you now?”

“Set me free. Clearly I’m too much trouble to keep around. But don’t worry--I promise I won’t tell anyone what you are or what you did to me. Won’t come looking for you, either; I just wanna go home and forget this ever happened.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Then you better fix those doors real good, cos I  _ will  _ try to get through them again.”

Alexio was silent a long moment. Staring down at nothing, eyes hooded, as a little muscle ticked over and over in his jaw. “No. You won’t.”

Dean’s pulse sped up at the ominous solemnity of those words. What was this fucker gonna do to him?

Still not looking at Dean, Alexio slid the instrument tray out from under the table and emptied his pockets. Nothing unusual there, except there were two extraction needles this time, the new one maybe a third the size of the old one. Where the fuck did he plan on sticking  _ that _ ?

But all Alexio picked up was a roll of medical tape. “Did you know,” he asked as he grabbed Dean’s fisted right hand and rotated it in the restraint until his arm had turned palm-up, “that there are actually two types of marrow in the human body?”

He paused like maybe this wasn’t a rhetorical question, but Dean wasn’t here to entertain the fucker, and he was a little bit busy  _ not panicking  _ besides.

Alexio wrapped a bunch of tape around the crook of Dean’s right elbow, firmly securing his arm to the wing in its new position. Then Alexio moved back down to Dean’s right hand, pried his fingers open ( _ not panicking not panicking he doesn’t want to break me not panicking _ ) and then thoroughly taped his first and third knuckles to the armrest, keeping his fingers splayed and his hand pressed flat to the wing. He stayed silent the whole time, but when he was done, he picked up his one-sided conversation.

“It’s true. There’s red marrow, which grows mostly in your big bones: your hips, your sternum, your collarbones and ribs, the tops of your legs. This is what sustains my people. But there’s also yellow marrow, rich with fat, found mostly in the small bones.” He traced his index finger over the palm of Dean’s strapped-down hand, and Dean’s stomach flipped so hard he had to swallow to keep it in place. “Like right here. Did you know that, counting the wrist, there are twenty-seven bones in a human hand?”

He looked to Dean again like he was expecting an answer. Dean’s mouth was so dry he couldn’t have replied if he’d wanted to. 

Alexio picked up the tape again, used it to secure his forearm right above the leather cuff. “The yellow marrow is hard to harvest because there’s so little in each tiny, fragile bone. It’s like . . . eating hazelnuts in the shell. You’ve got to crack each one open with painstaking care for only a morsel of nutmeat--not very satisfying, as you might imagine. But oh, what a  _ delicacy  _ yellow marrow is. It’s our equivalent of junk food, but oh my is it  _ delicious _ . And if I tap every single bone in your right hand, I might not even need to tap your hip afterward.”

Though Dean was stark fucking naked against a cold metal table, he was seriously starting to sweat. Was this monster really gonna break every single bone in his dominant hand? “Alexio. Come on, man, you don’t wanna do this.”

“You’re right, I don’t.” Alexio pulled on the sterile gloves. “But I don’t see how you’ve left me any choice, Dean.”

Dean tried to flex his hand, yank his arm. Break the tape somehow, or the straps; the doors were still ripped open, he could run . . .

He couldn’t even move his fingers a fucking millimeter.

“Look, I get it, I’ve been a bad boy. Just gimme a spanking or something. I promise I won’t do it again, okay? I  _ swear _ .”

“You lie.” Alexio scrubbed Dean’s entire hand with a betadine pad, even working between the fingers. Then ripped open another pad to do it again. “But this punishment . . .” His jaw clenched again, like  _ he  _ was the one about to have his hand run through a fucking garbage disposal. “You’ll never forget it. And you’ll never say or do a single thing again without considering the consequences.”

“Alexio . . . Come on, man, you said you wouldn’t harm me. You  _ promised _ .”

“This needle is made for infants. It’s small enough not to break even the most delicate bones in your hand. And if by chance one does, it will set clean and heal quickly. No lasting harm will come to you.”

_ Hah.  _ “Think you’re kinda glossing over the mental scars, there, buddy.”

“The mental scars are the whole  _ point  _ of this. So you will watch. If you don’t watch, I’ll do your left hand too, do you understand?”

It was a scientifically proven fact that watching a medical procedure being done on you made it hurt more. Dean knew it, and he bet Alexio knew it too. The fucker. He swallowed, but with a threat that big hanging over him, he nodded like a good boy.

Alexio picked up the baby extraction needle, freed it from its sterile packaging. Felt carefully for the little bone in the tip Dean’s pointer finger, and rested the point of the needle on the skin atop it. Caught and held Dean’s gaze and said, “Never try to run again.”

Then forced the needle through the pad of Dean’s finger.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strap in, folks. This one's ugly.

Dean had read somewhere once that there were more nerve endings in a single human fingertip than on an entire human torso. Well, he could fucking believe that now.

He managed to keep mostly quiet as Alexio drove the needle through the meat of his finger, even though it felt like being impaled with a molten poker rather than a needle no bigger than the ones used to draw blood. 

Over the years he’d knicked, pricked, and cut his fingers more times than he could count, but never straight down to the bone like this, and oh holy Hell was it  _ bad _ . Worse than the hip sticks by entire orders of magnitude. He couldn’t bite back a grunt, then a whimper he was still alert enough to feel shame about, as Alexio started working into the bone. 

It was slow. Agonizingly, unbearably  _ slow _ . Maybe because the bone was so small, Alexio was worried about punching right through it. Which honestly might’ve hurt less than this meticulous, excruciating pressure, like he was scraping out one single fucking cell at a time to make sure Dean felt it as intensely and as long as possible.

Another hard-but-not-too-hard push, the needle sparking nerves on two fronts: the bone it was slowly puncturing, and the hyper-sensitive soft tissue it was pushing and pulling and rubbing against from the inside every time Alexio angled or rotated the needle.

Jesus, he was gonna be sick. He squeezed his eyes closed, clenched his teeth, noise escaping his throat again.

“I told you to watch, Dean.”

He couldn’t even unclench his jaw long enough to explain that he’d only closed his eyes cos he was gonna puke. But there was no denying the threat in the monster’s voice, so he pried them back open. Felt a tear spill down his left cheek, wished he could wipe it away. The idea of letting this fucker see how incredibly effective this punishment was--and god help him, they weren’t even one twenty-seventh of the way through it yet--was as horrifying to him as the punishment itself.

But he couldn’t stop it. Alexio rotated the needle again, and though only a few drops of blood welled from the puncture, it felt like a whole damn  _ house  _ had landed on his finger--except without that first blessed moment of shock-induced numbness. Just pain. Absolutely excruciating pain. How could one tiny finger hurt so fucking  _ much _ ? Another whimper escaped his clenched teeth, and right behind it he could feel the word  _ please  _ trying to get out too, but he bit his tongue and forced it back.

He wasn’t gonna beg. He  _ wasn’t _ . 

Still wasn’t sure he wasn’t gonna puke, though. Especially as the needle finally punched through the outer bone and into the marrow cavity, and Alexio started screwing on the syringe. Little (and not so little) noises were escaping Dean nearly nonstop now, and he’d broken out in a cold sweat so thick he felt slippery against the table. He desperately did not want to watch Alexio draw the marrow up from his finger, but he wasn’t stupid enough to look away, so he just blinked a few times, felt a few more tears run down his face. 

Felt the scream welling in his chest as Alexio drew up the plunger on the syringe, had no choice but to let it loose before it tore him up from the inside as surely as that fucking needle. His whole damn  _ hand  _ was on fire, skin and bone and muscle and nerves and ligaments and tendons rendering into pure liquid agony, into vacuum and pressure so fierce it sucked the air all the way from his lungs and right out through the tip of his index finger and he couldn’t, he  _ couldn’t  _ go through this twenty-six more times, he was gonna die right here on this table from the pain alone, there was no fucking  _ way-- _

Alexio pulled the needle from Dean’s fingertip, and Dean gasped in a desperate, shuddery breath, let it tremble loose and then sucked in another one. Alexio pressed a little gauze square to his fingertip with far too much force and Dean cried out again, tried to pull his hand away, tuck his finger protectively into his palm, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t make it stop, was so fucking helpless and scared and  _ weak  _ he almost wished it’d just kill him now and be done with.

He realized he’d closed his eyes again, forced them open to see Alexio smearing a tiny dot of antibiotic cream onto the puncture wound and then taping a little square of gauze over it. Couldn’t wrap the tape around his finger while his hand was strapped so thoroughly, so he just stuck the tape ends to the arm wing too.

The pain was fading, thank god, but it still felt like he had a fat glass splinter driven clear through his finger that someone wouldn’t stop putting pressure on. The bone ached like a real fracture--and he’d had enough of those in his fingers to know exactly how they felt--pain radiating all the way down into his hand.

Alexio unscrewed the syringe from the needle. He’d extracted so little marrow Dean could barely see it in there, despite it having felt like he’d hollowed out Dean’s entire body.

“Don’t worry,” Alexio said. “I know it doesn’t seem like much, but twenty-seven times over, it adds up. You have big hands; I don’t imagine I’ll need to tap your hip tonight. Now if you’ll excuse me, this spoils quite fast.” He waved the syringe at Dean, then held it to his mouth and plunged out the marrow he’d tapped. If he’d made a show of enjoying his food in the past, it was  _ nothing  _ compared to this nausea-inducing series of moans and sighs. Dean took a chance and looked away. Alexio didn’t scold him for it.

When Alexio was done eating, he wiped down the syringe and needle with prep pads and inserted the stylus back into the needle for the next stick. “If you’re wondering why it hurt so much more than you’re used to, it’s because there’s so little space inside these bones. The negative pressure caused by the suction is quite intense--significantly more so than in the hip. Plus, of course, the ultra-dense concentration of nerve endings.” He leaned in, felt along the middle of Dean’s index finger for the next extraction point. “For what it’s worth, you handled it better than I’d have expected. From watching you, I’d never know it was so much worse than a hip tap.”

This was apparently another one of those weird moments where Alexio was waiting for a response, but if Dean opened his mouth, the only thing that’d come out would be  _ fuck you _ , so he kept it shut. Now was not the time to antagonize this asshole.

“Well, it’s going to be a long night. I suppose I shouldn’t waste any more time.”

Yeah, cos how  _ rude  _ that’d be. 

“Unless there’s something you want to say to me?”

Oh, there were _ plenty  _ of things he wanted to say, but none of them seemed especially smart right now. Unless . . . was Alexio giving him an out? Would a heartfelt apology matter here? God knew he wouldn’t have to fake his fear, and he didn’t have much in the way of pride left anyway, so . . . “I’m sorry, Alexio. I shouldn’t have tried to run. I’ll never do it again, I swear. Please, Alexio, untie me, okay? Untie me and we can just--” 

Was it worth it, trying to seduce this fucker? Whoring himself just to relieve a little pain? Well, okay, a  _ lot  _ of pain, like, really-seriously-he-could-die-from-it levels of pain. But still . . . 

On the other hand, not like he’d never whored himself out before. He’d sucked his way through half his teenage years and early twenties to keep Sammy clothed and fed when John was away. But that was different. He’d been a stupid kid. And he’d done it for Sammy.

“And we can just what, Dean?”

Nope. Couldn’t do it. Wasn’t like getting fucked by that beast would hurt any less than being eaten by him, anyway. The best he could make himself offer was, “Go back to how things were.”

Alexio snorted, an almost but not quite human sound. “You mean you fighting me all the time, lying, slinging cruelties, plotting escape, making me hurt you? No, I think not.”

Alexio picked up the extraction needle, poised it over the new spot he’d picked out, and Dean was  _ not panicking.  _ Had no idea how to stop this now, except for the faint sliver of hope that he could play on Alexio’s need to be liked. He met Alexio’s eyes, let his lip curl with all the hatred and anger boiling inside him, and snarled, “If you do this, I will  _ never  _ forgive you, Alexio.”

Of all the reactions Dean had expected to that, a small sad smile was the least of them, but there it was. “Of course you will. You’ll forgive me anything by the time we’re through.”

And the worst part of all of this was that Alexio might actually be right.

* * *

But this wasn’t Hell and Alexio wasn’t Alistair. And yes, by the time Alexio had reached the last bone in Dean’s ring finger, Dean was so out of his head with agony and exhaustion that he slipped and begged the monster to stop, but he still knew one thing for sure: he would  _ never  _ forgive this sick fuck.  _ Never  _ let him crawl inside his head like Alistair had, twist around his pain and his need and his terror and his loneliness into some sick parody of affection. Alexio hadn’t broken him  _ that  _ far. And Dean wouldn’t let him.

Dean coughed out a hoarse shout as Alexio drew up the marrow from his ring finger. He’d stuck the needle in where the finger creased against the palm, and if Dean hadn’t been staring right at it he’d have sworn the whole finger was being ripped clean off. 

Some thousand years of Hell-caliber torture later, when Alexio had finally finished and pulled the needle out, Dean sniffed back tears and let his eyes fall closed, let his chin slump to his chest. Lay there limp and sweaty and panting and wishing he were dead. Too tired to fight back anymore, to tense up, to clench eyes or his teeth or his unbound fist--couldn’t even muster the energy to hold his own damn head up.

Time floated by for a bit, fuzzy but not at all warm. Prickly, cold, cruel. His hand felt outsized, bigger than the rest of him combined, popping and sizzling and burning, crushed beneath its own weight. Crushing  _ him _ beneath its weight. The pain was astounding--nothing outside of Hell had ever or could ever compare in Dean’s mind.

It was so fucking hard to think of anything else but the weight of all that agony that Dean didn’t even notice Alexio eating his latest morsel, didn’t notice him putting his instruments down and laying a hand on Dean’s bound forearm. Only realized the fucker was touching him when those fingers stroked--the soft touch such a wild counterpoint to the cruelty that Dean’s senses didn’t know what to make of it at first. He flinched, cried out, tried and failed to pull away.

“Shhh, it’s all right. No pain for a bit.”  _ Ha.  _ Alexio might not  _ actively  _ be hurting him now, but that didn’t mean all that agony had magically disappeared. 

The fingers on his arm stroked again, squeezed gently. “We’ve been at this an hour already. I think it’s time for a break, don’t you?”

Was that a kindness or a cruelty? God, he wanted a break.  _ Needed  _ one before the whole of him shattered apart as surely as his hand had. But he was so beyond beat that he probably wasn’t feeling things as intensely as before. Or maybe he was, but he had no fucks left to give it anymore. Couldn’t fully appreciate his suffering when he was half unconscious. And he bet Alexio knew that. Wanted to snap him out of it a little to make sure he  _ really felt it  _ when the torture started up again.

Alexio’s stroking hand moved up to cup Dean’s chin, to lift Dean’s head until he was meeting Alexio’s eyes. Dean blinked away a film of tears and just . . . watched, waited. Didn’t have the energy for anything else.

“We’re a third done, now.” A  _ third _ ? Was he fucking  _ serious _ ? All that pain and not even  _ halfway _ ? “That was nine. Eighteen left.”

Dean’s lower lip trembled, and fresh tears burned at his eyes. He couldn’t do this, he couldn’t, he couldn’t, he  _ couldn’t _ . 

_ Sam, Cas, Zeke, anyone, please . . . Please come find me. I can’t do this anymore. Please.  _ Please.

Alexio thumbed the tears away with painstaking gentleness. “Don’t cry, my poor, brave, foolish human. You’re doing so well. I’m so proud of you.”

Dean sucked in a watery breath, huffed it out on a sickly little laugh. “Then end this. Please.” God, his voice was so shot already it hurt to talk.  _ Come on, Cas, where are you, man? I need you. I really fucking  _ need  _ you. _ “I was wrong, okay? I know I was wrong. I get it now, I swear. I’ve learned my lesson. If you care about me at all . . .  _ Please _ . Stop.”

Alexio said nothing, but he looked downright heartbroken--enough for Dean to hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d gotten through. A thumb stroked across his cheekbone, again, again, though Dean could barely feel it over all the shrieking static from his right hand. He met Alexio’s gaze through lashes clumped with tears, and scraped together just enough guile to show the monster remorse and eagerness to please along with his desperation and pain. 

Alexio’s expression crumpled, and he pulled both hands away from Dean’s face. Folded his arms across his chest and actually turned away. “No. I’m sorry, Dean, but I can’t. What lesson would I teach you if I let you beg and charm me out of discipline?”

“The value of compassion,” Dean croaked out. “Of mercy. Of flexibility.” He sniffed, let the waterworks turn on--didn’t even have to fake it, really. “Maybe even that it’s not what you are that makes you a monster, but what you do. If I’m really so precious to you? Prove it.”

Alexio sighed and dropped his hands to his sides, and then he just . . . walked away. Dean didn’t get his hopes up, though, because Alexio was walking behind him rather than toward the door. He closed his eyes instead and let his head rest back against the table. Drifted almost instantly, somewhere between awake and asleep, body floaty, sounds fuzzy, but the agony still so mercilessly sharp--in his hand, his concussed head, his cracked ribs, his punctured shoulder, every strained muscle in his entire body. He wanted out. Unconscious. Cursed John, not for the first time, for training him so thoroughly to stay alert until the danger had passed that he couldn’t ever shut off anymore, no matter how desperately he needed to.

Maybe thirty seconds or thirty minutes later--fuck if Dean knew or cared--Alexio tapped at his cheek, and he opened his eyes to see a cup of water hovering in front of his mouth. 

“Drink. You’re dehydrated.”

The instant the water hit his tongue, he craved it as surely as he craved relief, and he swallowed it down as fast as Alexio would let him.

Alexio smiled a tiny little smile, though Dean couldn’t parse out why, and asked, “More?”

Dean nodded. Too tired to speak. Alexio disappeared, Dean drifted, Alexio reappeared with a fresh cup. Dean drank.

When he was done, Alexio cupped his cheek, turned his face until their eyes met. “I  _ am  _ proving my love you to. I suffer through this as surely as you do, Dean.”  _ Hah _ . “But I do it anyway because I must, because you put yourself in reckless danger today and nearly died. I’m  _ protecting _ you, Dean.”

And then,  _ of course _ , he picked up the damn syringe.

“You’re protecting  _ yourself _ ,” Dean spat. “You selfish, delusional, spineless fucking  _ cow _ . You do this to me again, Alexio, and we are  _ done _ , you hear me?  _ Done _ .”

Alexio’s jaw flexed, and for a second his face  _ wavered  _ again between human and not. He wasn’t angry, though--he looked  _ devastated.  _ “If your hatred is the price I must pay to protect you, then so be it. Eighteen to go. Now be a good boy and watch; it would break my heart to have to make it forty-five.”

Oh, Dean was gonna break his heart, all right. Break it with a fucking  _ sword _ . All he had to do was make it through this, and then he could get right back to plotting his escape and this monster’s slow, gruesome death.

_ Sam? Cas? Zeke? Any fucking time now, okay guys? Any fucking time. Cos much as I hate to say it--I don’t think I can do this one alone. _


	16. Chapter 16

Dean woke screaming to a railroad spike being nailed through his wrist.

_ Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck,  _ Alistair was fucking  _ crucifying  _ him again.

_ “You always did so love to sacrifice yourself for the world’s sins, didn’t you, Dean?”  _

What had he done wrong this time?  _ I’m sorry okay I’m sorry you don’t have to  _ make  _ me sorry whatever it was I didn’t mean it please don’t do this again please please pl-- _

“Keep watching, Dean. I know these four are the worst, but that doesn’t mean you get to keep your eyes closed.”

. . . Alexio.

Dean pried his eyes open.

Not Alistair. Not Hell. 

Though it may as well have been. God, how many hours had they been at this already? Felt like days. Weeks.  _ Years _ . He cried out as the railroad spike ( _ needle, just a stupid little needle _ ) gouged deeper into the too-tender underside of his wrist, squeezed his eyes closed again.

“Dean . . .”

Warning tone. Watch. He was supposed to watch. Eyes open. His own wrist and Alexio’s hand and that falsely innocuous-looking needle in his field of vision. Alexio drilling down, down, into the bone, that same sharp sick pain like a blood-gas draw but a hundred-thousand times worse. Watching made it two-hundred-thousand times worse. He gritted his teeth against it, against the small pathetic little whining sounds breaking in his sore throat.

The needle punched through the bone’s outer shield and into the marrow cavity. Dean barked a short, sharp scream and then clenched his teeth again, bracing for the suction.

But Alexio’s hand stilled, and instead of screwing the syringe onto the needle, he asked, “Who’s Alistair?”

“Another monster,” Dean gritted out. Hadn’t meant to, not really, but that’s what Alexio had reduced him to, wasn’t it? No fucking control over anything, not even his damn mouth.

Dean dragged his eyes from his wrist to Alexio’s face. His expression was haggard. Sad. But thoughtful. He opened his mouth like he was gonna say something, but then closed it, reached for the syringe. Screwed it on while Dean whimpered and writhed as much as his bindings would allow.

“He’s the one who . . . hurt you?”

“Yeah,” Dean gasped. Voice breathy, tight--hard to speak, hurt. He didn’t understand why he kept answering these questions. Nothing to be gained, not anymore. Alexio had made that very clear.

“Did you hate him too?”

_ Yes.  _

_ No.  _

_ Not always, but . . .  _ “I wanted to.”

Alexio’s hands remained still on the syringe, fingers poised over the plunger but not yet pulling it back. Dean wouldn’t be able to talk once he started that--he’d be too busy screaming. 

“And me? Do you want to hate me?”

Ah, so  _ that’s  _ why his mouth had been running. His brain might be three-fourths on the fritz right now, but it seemed his instincts were still intact. “No.” He blinked, sniffed, let the tears fall again. Far too easy; all he had to do was stop fighting them so hard. “I don’t-- I don’t wan’t . . .” Not enough air. Not enough energy for full sentences. He paused, panting hard, to gather both. “Don’t  _ want  _ to hate you.” Another pause, more sniffling, the most pathetic puppy-dog eyes he could muster. “Please don’t make me.”

Even half out of his head with exhaustion, mad with pain, he could pinpoint the exact moment when Alexio’s heart broke in two. A moment after that, Alexio slid the needle from Dean’s wrist. No extraction.

“I’ve done twenty,”Alexio said, smoothing a thumb slicked with antibiotic cream over the fresh puncture wound and the one beside it he’d done earlier, the one that’d finally knocked Dean unconscious for the first time in all this mess. “I suppose that’s enough. You’ve learned your lesson, haven’t you, Dean?”

“ _ Yes _ .” A gush of real relief on semi-fake tears. “Yes, yes, I promise, yes.” 

“Shhh. It’s all right now. Shhh.” Alexio stepped in close, undid the strap around Dean’s chest and pulled him into a half hug, face pressed to Alexio’s belly, Alexio’s hand cupping the back of his head. “Everything’s going to be all right now, Dean. Shhh, all is forgiven.”

Dean slumped against him and cried because that’s exactly what Alexio wanted him to do, expected him to do: take comfort from the very same monster who’d hurt him. He was relieved to realize that while the tears themselves were cathartic, Alexio’s proximity and touch did nothing but disgust him. Nothing but make him want to kill the beast even more.

And with Alexio’s guard down . . . well, he didn’t know how yet, and he didn’t know when, but the one thing he knew for absolute fucking certain was that his time would come. He was gonna put this monster in the ground, and he was gonna  _ enjoy  _ it.

* * *

Dean slept the sleep of the three-quarters dead for the next sixteen hours, give or take, until the pain in his hand and the pressure in his bladder grew too insistent to keep ignoring. When he finally surfaced enough to be aware of anything beyond those two very noisy complaints, he realized several things.

One, he’d been moved into his own bed, tucked in with his feet and busted hand elevated and extra blankets wrapped around his torso, presumably to stave off shock. Two, he was clean--no tear tracks on his face or sticky cold pain sweat on his everything. Three, his right hand had been soft-splinted from the tips of each finger to halfway down his forearm--and Jesus, just how many bones had Alexio broken last night anyway? Felt like all of them, but that might’ve just been soft tissue pain; it was all such a great big stabbing, throbbing mess that he couldn’t really sort one signal from the next. Four, he was still naked, which, no surprise there. Five, the lights were on, which, again, no surprise--they’d likely stay that way for a good long time. And six, though he didn’t realize this for at least a minute--a lapse he was reasonably content to blame on having been  _ literally eaten alive  _ for like three solid hours last night--Alexio was repairing the main room door.

Alexio seemed to notice Dean was awake at roughly the same moment Dean noticed Alexio was down here. He looked up from the hinge he was screwing into the fresh door frame (and  _ how  _ had Dean slept through all the racket of new construction?) and offered Dean a hesitant smile from across the room.

Dean hesitantly smiled back. Until he could think through the next plan of action, it seemed like the wisest choice.

Alexio’s mouth moved, but he didn’t say anything. Or at least, Dean couldn’t hear him. Alexio’s mouth moved again, and then he put down his screwdriver and pointed at his ears with both hands. Pointed again, and again, until Dean finally caught a clue.

Earplugs. He was wearing earplugs. Now that he was focused on it, he felt a slight pressure in his ears. Rushed to pull them out, fumbling a little with a trembling left hand. Had to resist the urge to hurl them away. It felt silly to be so repulsed by the things, but after everything else Alexio had forced inside him--needles, his fingers, his tongue, his monstrous fucking horse cock--this was just one thing too many.

“I didn’t want to wake you with all the banging,” Alexio explained. Made sense, he supposed, but that didn’t make it any better. “Are you hungry? Thirsty? Anything I can get you?”

“Still--” His voice cracked. Throat hurt. He cleared it gently, tried again. “Still waiting on that whiskey and demerol.”

Alexio’s little smile faltered. He watched Dean for a long moment, like maybe he was waiting for him to say something else, but Dean didn’t. Hurt to talk, and he had nothing to say to that asshole anyway. He thought maybe he remembered telling Alexio last night that he didn’t want to hate him, but he’d only said that to make him stop. Though, maybe in its own way it really wasn’t a lie; he didn’t  _ want  _ to hate Alexio, he already  _ did _ .

So he’d play at broken, sure. And he’d do his best to play at affection. But he knew himself well enough to know when his best was gonna be shit. In which case, better to say nothing at all.

Alexio walked from the half-installed outer door to the already-repaired cage door--which, wow, that was fast--but didn’t come inside. Dean hadn’t even sat up yet--he could already tell how much moving would suck--so he couldn’t get a good enough look at Alexio’s face to decide if the fucker was staying outside cos he was guilty or unsure, or if he was only not opening the cage door because the outer door was wide open. 

“Do you need help sitting up?”

Dean shook his head. Which, mistake--the pressure in his forehead spiked and he squeezed his eyes shut before they popped from their sockets. 

“Dean . . .” Sadness, or maybe regret, or maybe just recrimination-- _ don’t be stupid, human. _

Dean wedged his elbows into the mattress and levered himself vertical. Fucking head was throbbing as hard as his hand, in perfect, agonizing time with every heartbeat. Ribs too. Shoulder. Hips. Ass. There wasn’t one fucking part of him that wasn’t a total goddamn mess, and it was his own stupid fault for being too fucking  _ slow _ .

“ _ Dean. _ ”

“M’fine.” He threw his good hand out like a stop sign before Alexio got ideas about coming in here. “M’fine. Just sore is all.”

To prove his point--which was clearly, even to the most casual observer, about 600% crap--Dean pushed himself to his feet and stumbled over to the toilet.

When he realized Alexio was still standing at the cage door, watching him like a hawk, he snapped, “Do you mind? Can’t a man piss in peace?”

He stared over his shoulder until Alexio turned away with a frown and a sigh and went back to repairing the outer door.

* * *

The next several days passed in a molasses-like trickle of one-sided conversations, stilted silences, and pointed stares. Dean slept a lot. Healed way slower than he should’ve, though at least the headaches faded on day 2, and by day 3 he could take a shit without wanting to claw his own eyeballs out. He could use his shoulder again too--the punctures were scabbing over nicely. But his ribs were still rough, and his hand was a fucking mess, and since Alexio kept tapping him every night, his hips never got a break, which meant neither did his wrists and ankles.

The one saving grace was that at least the fucker wasn’t trying to rape him again. He seemed too depressed to be aroused.

It wasn’t that Dean was giving him the cold shoulder, not exactly. More like  _ Dean  _ was too depressed to bother. Honestly, he probably was. He’d basically stopped talking altogether--had nothing to say to Alexio, no reason to keep praying, and no desire to talk to himself. He also had no real appetite, though he made himself eat what he could. Found no real pleasure in it when he did, despite Alexio’s culinary flair. Hadn’t bothered with the TV or his book collection since the failed escape. Just laid in bed a lot, waiting for life to stop hurting so fucking much.

Except it never really did, did it?

Alexio seemed to be taking Dean’s funk even harder than Dean was. Wasn’t anything new for Dean, really--he’d felt a lot worse for a lot longer through a whole hell of a lot of his life, and he’d always kept on going. He’d keep on going now, too, for as long as he could, even if he couldn’t see a way out. Had to keep believing that Sam was looking for him, or Cas, or even Kevin, for fuck’s sake.  _ Someone  _ would miss him. Someone would find him. Eventually.

Not that he was some damsel in distress or some shit. He was still plotting, watching, waiting, scheming. Just didn’t see any options right now, was all.

“Dean?”

Dean startled, sat up in bed. Alexio had stopped announcing when he was coming down, and somehow Dean hadn’t heard him opening the outer door. Must be lunch-time; Alexio was holding a tray.

“I made you chicken pot pie.” He held the tray out in front of him like an offering, smiled a pained little smile. “And real pie, too--pecan this time, I hope you like it. This recipe was one of Jimmy’s favorites.” The smile faded. This fucker had loved Jimmy, in his own twisted way. He wondered if Jimmy had ever given in and started loving him back. Probably, and Dean couldn’t even blame him. Only way to stay sane down here all those years.

When it’d become abundantly clear that Dean wasn’t going to respond, Alexio sighed and keyed himself into the cage. The new lock he’d installed required a code  _ and  _ a fingerprint. 

Dean swung his legs over the bed, tugged the sheet over his lap and the blanket over his shoulders. He doubted Alexio would ever give him his clothes back, but being naked in front of your rapist wasn’t the kind of thing you ever really got used to, so bedcovers it was.

Alexio crossed the cage and sat on the bed a couple feet away from Dean. Placed the tray between them. Dean slid it onto his lap and poked at his food. Waited for Alexio to go away.

Alexio didn’t go away. He sighed, pushed his hair off his face with both hands, sighed again.

Dean made himself take a bite of his pot pie. Chew. Swallow. Repeat. He was getting pretty good at doing everything with his left hand. Didn’t even drop anything this time.

Alexio still wasn’t going away. Maybe Dean wasn’t ignoring him hard enough.

A few more bites of food, two more sighs from Alexio, and then the monster said to his lap, “Tell me how to make you happy, Dean.”

Easy. “Set me free.”

Dean glanced over specifically to enjoy the agonized expression he knew he’d find on Alexio’s face. 

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Then stop asking stupid questions. Just go away and let me eat in peace, will you?”

Much to Dean’s surprise, Alexio did.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since you guys are all so awesome with the comments, here's a super-fast update! It's a bit of a short one but I think you'll like it. And possibly hate me at the end ;-) Also, please see end notes for a one-question poll, thank you!

The morning after their little talk, Alexio brought a full cloth shopping bag down with breakfast. He opened the cage door just far enough to push both items through. Didn’t even try to come inside.

“I have to go out today. I may not be back until tomorrow, so don’t worry if you don’t see me tonight.”

He looked like he was waiting for Dean to ask where he was going, what he was doing, why. Dean just watched him silently. He didn’t give a shit where this fucker was going, only that he’d be gone.

Alexio sighed--he’d been doing that a lot lately--and pointed at the cloth bag. “There’s a thermos of soup in there, and three cold meals in case I’m gone longer than I expect.”

Alexio stood there and watched Dean and waited for him to say something, but Dean wasn’t gonna give him the satisfaction. So Dean sat there and stared and waited for Alexio to fucking leave. 

When he finally did--with another sigh, of course; no more smiles for Alexio these days--Dean rushed over to the bag. Not because he cared about the food, but because maybe Alexio had left something Dean could use to Shawshank his ass outta here. If the fucker was really gonna be gone all day, he had plenty of time to try.

The thermos was hard plastic, heavy with the soup inside it--could be a good cudgel to break the electronic keypads with. If he could get to the circuitry beneath, he had at least a 50/50 shot at hotwiring his way to freedom. On the other hand, that meant he had as much as a 50/50 shot of failing and being punished again in such spectacular fashion that it made him nauseous just  _ thinking  _ about it.

Well, the day he stopped taking that gamble was the day he’d lose the right to call himself a Winchester, so . . .

He set the thermos aside to finish fishing through the bag. He found three insulated lunch bags in there, each with a meal and a flexible cold pack inside, but nothing he could convert into a lockpick or a weapon. The insulated bags didn’t even have zippers, just velcro closures. 

So thermos it was, then.

But later. First, Dean ate breakfast. Made himself polish off the tray. Found himself feeling grateful for the packet of Tylenol Alexio had left him for dessert, and squashed that bullshit right down. He wouldn’t  _ need  _ the damn drugs if that fucking monster hadn’t  _ tortured  _ him.

He listened as he ate, tried to see if he could hear anything at all beyond these walls. A door slamming, a car starting,  _ anything _ . He couldn’t--hadn’t expected to, really, since the basement was obviously soundproofed--which meant he had no idea if Alexio was really leaving for the day or if this was just a test to see what Dean would do when told he was alone.

Which . . .  _ shit _ .

Because really, Dean was all about calculated risk, even if the numbers sucked. But to end up strapped to that table again without even the  _ hope  _ of escape because Alexio was just playing him . . . 

On the other hand, when had Dean ever  _ not  _ run headlong into visible traps? And if this was one, at least he had a thermos he could try to brain Alexio with when he came to wrestle Dean onto the torture table. And if it  _ wasn’t  _ one--and really, Alexio didn’t seem to have a single drop of guile in his entire body, so it probably wasn’t one--then Dean might end the day a free man.

No contest. He had to try.

He gave Alexio another thirty minutes to get out of the house--assuming he actually was leaving--then picked up the thermos. Took a good look around the cage just in case there was something heavier here he could fill it with than soup. There wasn’t, but he took it over to the sink and filled in the inch or so of headroom that Alexio had left. Added maybe another few ounces, but every bit might count.

Then he walked over to the new door lock, took a deep breath, steeled himself for a potential shitshow, and bashed the thermos against the panel.

Nothing happened--not that he’d expected it to yet--so he did it again. Again. Again. He might have shit-ass fine motor control with his left hand, but boy did he know how to take a powerful swing with it, so at least he knew he was hitting the panel as hard as possible, wasn’t at a disadvantage here without his dominant hand. Was hitting hard enough, in fact, for the strikes to reverberate all the way up to his shoulder, to make his fingers that weird breed of numb that happened when your handheld weapon clashed with someone else’s. 

But the damn panel refused to break. Was it bulletproof or some shit? What the  _ fuck _ ?

He bashed at it for another five minutes at least, until  _ finally _ , he heard a loud, satisfying  _ crack _ .

And then realized, stomach sinking, that it wasn’t the panel that had broken. It was the thermos.

_ Shit. _

How was he gonna explain  _ this  _ to Alexio? The soup spattered all over the floor. The giant crack in the thermos. That he’d thrown it in a fit of rage? Maybe Alexio would buy that, maybe he wouldn’t. Hopefully he didn’t record the video feeds, wouldn’t be able to go back and check Dean’s story.

Dean let the thermos slide from his numb fingers, left it where it lay. Tried to take some small satisfaction in picturing Alexio on his knees, cleaning up after Dean’s mess. Couldn’t, really. Was too fucking pissed at himself, at the door lock, at the thermos, at Alexio, at  _ everything _ , for ruining his hopes.

. . . At least this hadn’t been a trap?

Small comfort, that. Yay, he wouldn’t be super extra tortured. But he was still stuck here, and he’d still be  _ eaten alive  _ each night in horribly painful fashion, and he’d still be raped again eventually--he refused to kid himself about that reprieve lasting too long--and he still had no fucking hope of getting out of here on his own.

No fucking hope at all.

* * *

Alexio was gone through dinner. Good--one less feeding Dean would have to endure. He grabbed a ham and swiss sandwich from one of the cooler bags and made himself finish the whole thing--including the stupid side salad Alexio had left with it. If he was gonna die down here, it wasn’t gonna be of an entirely preventable nutritional deficit. 

When he was done, he crawled into bed. He still hurt--not nearly as badly as he had a few days ago, but his hand had basically never stopped screaming at him--and he was seriously fucking bummed and just wanted everything to go away. Best way to do that was to sleep and hope he didn’t dream.

He did, though. Of needles, of cocks, of agony and terror, of running and running and being chased, caught, pinned and hurt and forced and--

Dean woke gasping and flailing, banged his hand into the partial bar wall separating his cage from the other one, and yelped, tears springing to his eyes. “ _ Fuck _ .” He hugged his hand to his chest, squeezed his arm above the splint until he could unclench his jaw, open his watering eyes. “Fuck fuck  _ fuck _ .” 

_ That was fucking careless, son. You don’t stop being so careless, you’re gonna get us all killed one day. Now strip and go stand in the corner. _

Not this time, though. Dean had already suffered enough for his carelessness this time, for letting Alexio get the drop on him somehow back in that bar. He dragged himself out of bed, went fishing through the meal bag for a cold pack in one of the insulated coolers that was actually still cold. Cradled it gingerly in the palm of his splinted hand, sat down in bed and rested his head against the bars, closed his eyes. Just breathed like dad had taught him until the wave crested and the pain began to ease. Wished Alexio had left him some fucking drugs, but maybe he was so afraid of Dean escaping any way he could that he wasn’t willing to risk an overdose.

Not that you could overdose on six Tylenol, but whatever.

He must’ve fallen asleep sitting up like that, because next he knew he was waking to the door opening, and then two sets of footsteps were coming through.

_ Two? _

Dean bolted out of bed and rushed buck naked to the door of his cage, saw Alexio half-leading half-carrying a bound man toward it. The guy had a bag over his head and his hands tied behind his back, and his feet were dragging like he was barely conscious.

Not quite six feet tall, cheap suit and blue tie and sensible shoes and Dean would know him  _ anywhere _ , even with his head covered, felt his heart flip in his chest and literally had to bite his tongue to stop himself from calling  _ Cas! _

Oh god oh god oh god, what was he  _ doing  _ here?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Question time! I won an art commission from an amazing artist in the Fandom Trumps Hate auction, and I want to have her illustrate a scene from this story. Anything in particular y'all would like to see come to absolutely stunning life? (I have A Thing for bared teeth but there's a lot of that to choose from in this one, lol.) LMK in the comments, thanks!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am _flying_ through this right now so you get a third chapter in three days :D

Alexio looked up at Dean leaning into the cage door, good hand fisted around the bars, and grinned at him like Santa Claus on Christmas morning. “I brought you a present, Dean.”

“Dean?” Cas asked from beneath the hood, voice drug-slurred and gravel-rough. Every cell in Dean’s body ached to call back to him, say  _ Heya Cas, fancy meeting you here _ or some stupid shit like that, something that wouldn’t reveal how damn  _ needy  _ he’d been, how weak-kneed relieved he felt to realize that  _ Cas had been looking for him _ , that Cas still  _ cared  _ enough to look for him. But he bit it back. Couldn’t let Alexio know they knew each other. Way too dangerous.

When Dean said nothing, Alexio’s smile faltered just a touch, but he seemed super determined to make Dean see how awesome this all apparently was. “I know you’ve been lonely, Dean. You’re a social creature, you need contact with your own kind. And the feedings tax you terribly. I thought, if I could bring you a friend, someone who could share the burden of my needs, perhaps you’d be happier.”

“Alexio--” Dean began at the same time Cas piped in again with an increasingly urgent “ _ Dean _ .”

Alexio cut them both off by dragging Cas forward, right up to the door. “I  _ was  _ just going to kill him. But look how exquisitely lovely . . .” He reached up and pulled the hood off. 

Dean’s heart flipped in his chest again at the sight of him, frail and human and doped up to the gills with god knew what but so,  _ so  _ perfect all the same. He didn’t know about “exquisitely lovely,” but he sure as fuck was a sight for sore, well,  _ everything _ .

Cas’s eyes landed on Dean, focused, widened, and even though Dean was giving him the silent subtle head-shake, he said, “Dean! Why are you naked, Dean? I’ve been loo--”

Alexio slammed him face-first into the bars with an ugly snarl. “You  _ know  _ him?” he roared, and Dean held his breath, prayed the monster wouldn’t come out to play.

“He’s the FBI agent I got in touch with when I came looking for Jimmy!” Dean stepped back from the bars just enough to hold his hands out in front of him, placating. “Nice guy. Helped me out. Please . . . don’t hurt him.”

Alexio’s face did  _ not  _ do its terrifying thing, which Dean took to mean that Alexio believed him. But then Alexio shook Cas again, and Cas grunted, face squished between two bars. With his hands behind his back, he had no way to protect himself. “He is not an FBI agent,” Alexio growled. “He’s a  _ hunter _ . And he was hunting  _ me _ .”

“What?” Dean forced as much breathy innocence into his question as he could muster. “Are you sure? Dude had a badge and everything. I spoke to his supervisor!”

“Another hunter,” Alexio practically spat. “They tricked you, Dean.” 

Dean just stood there, wide-eyed and nodding, so relieved Alexio was buying his schtick that he could barely think what to do next. Cas seemed to have caught on too, despite the drugs; he was watching Dean like a hawk but had stopped trying to say his name.

“Step away from the door, please, Dean. All the way to your table, if you please, and have a seat.”

Dean did as he was told. The faster Alexio put Cas in the cage, the faster he’d be able to make sure he was all right.

It occurred to Dean as Alexio keyed himself into the far cage door that Alexio hadn’t bothered to close the pass-through between the cells back up. Hopefully he’d leave it that way. To finally see a friendly face again but have to view it through bars? Dean didn’t know if he could take that.

Alexio dumped Cas on the bare bed; without support, he slumped over onto his side. “I need to bring down bedding,” Alexio said to Dean as he worked to undo the bindings around Cas’s wrists. “You’ll help him get settled?”

“Of course.”

He finished untying Cas, whose arms flopped like dead weights behind his back. Alexio didn’t bother to rearrange him or try to make him more comfortable. Just said, “He may sleep for a few hours.”

“What’d you do to him?”

“I believe you call them roofies.”

Anger surged on Cas’s behalf, on his own behalf. He wanted to jump up from his chair, confront the fucker, but he stayed put. Wasn’t willing to jeopardize his chance to be with Cas once Alexio left. “Is that what you did to me?”

“Well, the bartender did it, but yes. I’ve been picking out feeders at area bars for over a hundred years, and I’ve never yet found a bartender who couldn’t be swayed by sufficient funds.”

Cas must’ve been looking for Dean. Must’ve tracked him to that shithole bar and spoken to the wrong person. The bartender must’ve told Alexio, and now . . .

“So what was he worth to you, huh?”

Alexio stood from Cas’s bed, walked into Dean’s cell. Sat down on Dean’s bed. “Fifty thousand. Same as you.”

Huh. Felt strangely satisfying to hear how much Alexio had paid for them.

“ _ You  _ were worth every penny.  _ He  _ is for you. I hope you appreciate the lengths I’ve gone to.”

Dean gave Alexio the stink-eye. “You want me to say thank you for kidnapping some poor schmuck?”

Alexio’s shoulders slumped, and he rested his elbows on his knees, cradled his face in his hands. “You’ll thank me later when I feed from him instead of you.”

Oh no. No no no no no. Cas was  _ human  _ now, he felt pain now, he got sick and weak and he could  _ die  _ now and there was no way, no fucking way, that Dean was gonna let Alexio  _ eat  _ him.

Alexio sighed, tossed his hands up. “You are distressed.”

“ _ Yes  _ I’m distressed! I’m not gonna let some random dude take a hit for me, Alexio. I’m  _ sure  _ as fuck not gonna watch it happen. You can’t . . . You can’t  _ eat  _ him, okay? You can’t!”

Alexio just looked confused now. “Would you rather I eat you?”

“Yes!”

“I should kill him then?”

Dean stood from his chair, tossed his own hands up. “What?  _ No _ !” He strode around Alexio, put himself between the fucker and the pass-through to Cas’s cage. “Why would you  _ say  _ that?”

Alexio stood too, but he didn’t confront Dean. Didn’t even come near him. “I told you. He’s a  _ hunter _ . Either he’s food or he’s of no use. He’s a danger to keep, Dean. He’s  _ dangerous _ . I’ll do it for you or I’ll not do it at all, do you understand?”

Dean glanced over his shoulder, eyes darting to Cas, who was badly pretending to sleep--although maybe it only seemed bad to Dean because he knew what Cas looked like when he was really out. Cas was listening, but he couldn’t be of any help right now. And if Dean’s only choices were food or dead, well, he didn’t need help with that anyway.

“Fine,” he huffed. He moved out of the pass-through. Sat down on his own bed. Wanted to fold his arms across his chest but couldn’t with his hand in the splint, so he just glared instead. “Can you at least do it now while he’s drugged? Assuming you haven’t eaten yet tonight, that is. No reason to hurt him more than you have to.”

Alexio scowled, and his face  _ flickered  _ for a fraction of a second, a lightning impression of snout and horns and teeth. “There are  _ many  _ reasons.”

“Whoa.” Dean held out his good hand, stood again, took a single step toward Alexio. “Whoa. You don’t like to hurt people, remember?”

Alexio’s gaze slid over to Cas, and his upper lip curled back in a sneer. “I don’t like to hurt  _ you _ . Hunters are not  _ people _ .”

Shit. Shit shit  _ shit _ . Dean swallowed, took another step forward, another, until he was close enough to touch Alexio. Reached out real slow, telegraphing nice and clear in case Alexio decided to get jumpy on him, and laid his good hand on Alexio’s forearm. “Hey. Hey, I get it, okay? He was looking for _ you _ . That’s personal. But maybe it wasn’t about killing you. Maybe it was about helping  _ me _ , you know? He’s met me. I disappeared. He was just trying to find me. You can’t blame him for that, right?”

Alexio’s eyes fixed on Dean’s hand, not in challenge but in wonder. It occurred to Dean that this was the first time he’d ever voluntarily touched the guy. He took a steadying breath, slid his hand up to Alexio’s shoulder, gave it a gentle squeeze. “You don’t need to waste your energy being angry with him. Just focus on me, all right? This was . . . What you did here was really sweet. You saw that I was hurting and you went out and found a way to help make it better, and I appreciate that, man, I really do. Thank you.”

Ugh, Dean felt like he’d been coated head to toe in some first-class  _ Double Dare  _ slime, but at least Alexio wasn’t fuming at Cas anymore. In fact his whole focus had turned to Dean, and his expression softened as Dean watched, and then--ugh ugh  _ ugh _ \--his hand came up to caress Dean’s cheek. 

Dean closed his eyes and leaned into the touch like a good little pet. If this was what it took to keep Cas safe, well, this was nothing. This was easy.

“I’m so glad to hear you say that, Dean.” The fucker was practically purring. His fingertips skimmed from Dean’s cheek to his temple, stroked along his hairline, brushed over his lips. “I know your new life here isn’t easy, but you must believe me when I say your happiness is my primary concern. If he eases your burden, we’ll keep him. And if it hurts you to see him suffer, I swear to you I’ll hide my anger away and never unleash it upon him.”

Dean exhaled, nodded. “Thanks, Alexio. I mean that. Thanks.”

Alexio beamed at him, cupped Dean’s cheek again and stroked his thumb over Dean’s lips. Dean knew he should probably kiss the fucking thing, but he couldn’t quite take that leap, not yet. Shit didn’t seem dire enough yet. Hopefully it never would.

But Alexio didn’t seem to mind. He just smiled dreamily and pawed at Dean for a few more seconds, then pulled his hand back with a look of painful regret. “I must eat. So let me prove my words to you; I’ll feed now, while he’s still in thrall of the drug.”

Christ, he was really gonna have to let this happen, wasn’t he? He gave in to the luxury of closing his eyes, just for a moment, licked his lips and braved what might be a very dangerous question: “Can I, uh. Can I sit with him while you tap him?  It’s, uh, it’s fucking terrifying, you know? Especially the first time. I think it’ll be easier on him with a familiar face.”

“Of course, Dean. That’s very considerate of you. Why don’t you go sit with him now while I fetch my supplies? I’ll be right back.”

The instant Alexio left the room, Dean bolted over to Cas’s side. He sat down on the bed and shook Cas’s shoulder and leaned in close to whisper, “Cas, buddy, you with me?”

“Dean . . .” Cas opened bleary eyes and smiled at Dean, reached for his face with an uncoordinated hand and patted his cheek just a little too hard. “You’re alive. I’m so . . .  _ Dean _ . Hello, Dean.” Cas’s eyes were getting wet and his smile had turned almost goofy and this was all so fucking sappy and stupid but Dean kinda wanted to cry too. He plucked Cas’s hand out of the air before the guy could hit him again, held it in both of his own because why the fuck not, Cas was drugged out of his gourd and Alexio (probably) wasn’t watching them right now and he hadn’t felt a kind touch in, god,  _ weeks _ , and he’d  _ missed  _ Cas like  _ holy shit  _ had he ever missed this nerdy little dude so if he wanted to hold his fucking hand, sue him, he’d hold his fucking hand.

Cas was doing that super-intense too-close staring thing, and while he made no attempt to pull his hand from Dean’s, his smile slowly faded. “You look  _ awful _ ,” he slurred. Hah, yeah, no kidding. “What happened to your hand?”

“Just a few broken bones. It’s nothing. But Cas, buddy, listen. We don’t have a lot of time, okay? Did you--” Oh god, this was a stupid, careless,  _ cruel  _ question, but he had to ask, had to know when Cas knew. “Did you hear any of my prayers?”

Those tears gathering in Cas’s eyes broke, spilled over. “I’m human now, Dean. My ‘ears,’ as you say, are no longer ‘on.’”

“S’okay, buddy. Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. Where’s Sam?”

Cas’s free hand snaked out, casual as could be, and curled around Dean’s bare thigh. Dean very deliberately thought nothing of it; Cas had just missed him and was high as a kite right now, that was all. “He suggested we split up to cover more covers.” He squinted, frowned, like he realized he’d screwed that up but couldn’t quite figure out how. It was kind of adorable, to be honest.

“So he’s safe? 

Cas nodded, and Dean was hit with a wave of that weak-kneed relief again, so strong that if he hadn’t been sitting down, he might’ve fallen on his ass. Sam was out there. Sam was safe. Sam was looking for them, and  _ Sam would find them _ . He was a damn good hunter, and with Cas and Dean both disappearing from the same bar, he’d put the clues together and follow them back to Alexio and  _ kill that son of a bitch  _ and set them free.

They just had to bide their time. Survive until the cavalry came.

“All right. Listen. Alexio’s a minotaur. He eats bone marrow. Any minute now he’s gonna come down here with a . . . some kind of giant fucking biopsy needle, and he’s gonna shove it right through your hipbone and suck some marrow out. It’s gonna hurt like hell, but it’ll be over quick and you’ll be fine, okay?” 

Cas frowned like he’d bit into a lemon. “That sounds . . . unpleasant.”

Oh my god, he was so fucking stoned. It’d be funny if they weren’t trapped down here. He’d have to remember this for when they got out, get Cas smashed in a nice  _ safe  _ environment and tease the ever-loving shit outta him for like the next nine years.

“Yeah but listen, don’t fight him, okay? Cos this motherfucker’s so strong he could take on both of us without breaking a sweat, and all you’re gonna do is get hurt. When he tells you to strip and get on the table, you strip and get on the table, you hear me?”

A little eye-roll, like Dean was explaining this to death or mother-henning him or something. “Yes, Dean. I ‘get’ you.”

“And I’m guessing you’ve already figured this out, but just in case . . . He can’t know we got history. One, he has no idea I’m a hunter--thinks I’m just some PI who stumbled into monster-land. Two, something tells me he’s a jealous son of a bitch, and he thinks he and I are, I dunno, lovers or some shit, so just stick with the pretext: I thought you were FBI, you thought I was a PI, you helped me with the Jimmy Alvarez case, we never met before or after, end of story. Okay?”

“Okay.” The hand resting on his thigh twitched in what might’ve been reflex or a deliberate squeeze, Dean couldn’t tell. His pulse didn’t care about such fine distinctions, and skipped merrily off without his damn permission. “M’very tired, Dean.”

Dean freed up his good hand, laid it on top of Cas’s and subtly slid them both off his thigh. A, he wasn’t into dudes, and B, even if he was--which he absolutely was not, even if Cas had picked an especially good-looking vessel--he wasn’t gonna take advantage of his best friend while he was flying on the Dark Side of the Moon. “Sleep, buddy. I’ll be right here.” 

_ I’ll watch over you. _

Now if only that was a promise he had any fucking idea how to keep.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilery trigger warning in the end notes.

Cas had been out for maybe five minutes when Alexio came back down, arms full of bedding and pockets full of medical supplies. Dean still wasn’t convinced he had the stomach (or the heart) to watch Alexio torture Cas, but since he couldn’t see any way out but through, there was no fucking way he was gonna leave Cas to suffer alone.

Especially when, by all rights, it should’ve been  _ Dean  _ on that table. Not Cas. 

Dean had no idea if Cas remembered anything he’d told him even five minutes past, but when Alexio sat Cas up and started undressing him, Cas didn’t fight it. Dean . . . tried not to watch, he really,  _ really  _ did, but someone needed to make sure Alexio wouldn’t start taking liberties with the guy while he was too drugged up to fight back. Especially since Alexio had already called Cas exquisitely lovely, and also holy shit it seemed that Cas had been hiding a killer body beneath his stupid trench coat all these years. Dude was ripped, almost as big as Dean but leaner, more defined. Given how much Alexio seemed to love Dean’s body, Dean’d bet money the rapist fuck would have trouble keeping his hands off Cas’s.

And, yeah, that was  _ definitely  _ a glimmer of lust, a too-long stare, a lingering touch over Cas’s chest, and before Dean knew it he was on his feet, reaching for Cas with a rough, “Hey!”

Alexio startled like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, met Dean’s glare and ducked his head.

It occurred to Dean only a minute later, when he was helping Alexio drag-walk Cas to the steel table, that Alexio had probably misinterpreted Dean’s anger as jealousy. Because if he’d thought Dean was protecting Cas’s honor, rather than guarding his own interests, there probably would’ve been violence involved. In fact, Dean was almost certain Alexio would’ve hurt them both. So, yay miscommunication? But also boo miscommunication, because now Alexio had reason to think Dean  _ wanted  _ him enough to get possessive about it. Which . . . would definitely not end well.

So he tried not to look too concerned as Alexio strapped a very confused and worried Cas face-down onto the table. Tried not to look any more sympathetic than he would be to a stranger’s pain when Alexio swabbed down the back of Cas’s left hip and stuck the needle in. 

Cas, as it turned out, was kind of a screamer, even in front of an audience--and considering what a badass Cas was, maybe that was just because of the drugs, or maybe it was that angels didn’t have any macho bullshit baggage about showing their pain. Dean, meanwhile, was doing his damndest not to show his own pain, not to let Alexio see his heart shattering into a million razor-sharp shards inside his chest at the sounds of Cas’s suffering, at the tightly-shut eyes and bared teeth and balled fists. 

In the lull between the bone puncture and the marrow sucking, Dean wedged his good fingers into Cas’s clenched hand and let the guy squeeze for all he was worth. So what if Cas broke those fingers too. It wasn’t like Dean didn’t deserve it. Cas was only here because of him. Was suffering  _ for  _ him. It should’ve been Dean on that table. Dean, and no fucking one else.  _ Especially  _ not his newly-human best friend. 

Alexio screwed on the plunger, drew it back. Cas writhed and whimpered and shouted and squeezed Dean’s hand with shocking strength, and Dean stroked his thumb over Cas’s knuckles in what he hoped was a soothing touch and resolutely did not let Alexio see how agonizing this was for him, how brutally this was killing him.

And then it was over, and Dean sucked in a breath for what felt like the first time since the feeding had started, gave in to the urge and stroked Cas’s hair while Cas panted and moaned and drifted under the pull of the drugs. Alexio watched Dean with a sharp eye as he dressed Cas’s wound and then unscrewed the syringe from the needle, but Dean just shrugged and made his face as blank as he could-- _ just being a good Samaritan, this is totally what normal people do to acquaintances who’ve been tortured in front of them, right?  _

Alexio seemed to buy it, because he stopped staring and tipped his head back to eat his supper. He looked surprised when the first bit of marrow hit his tongue, swirled it around his mouth like he was trying to figure out some secret spice or something. Didn’t swallow for several seconds, all the while making a face like he couldn’t decide if he liked it or not.

“Hmm.” He held up the syringe, sucked a little more into his mouth, repeated the process.

_ You tasting traces of angel grace there, asshole? I hope it fucking poisons you. Burns you out from the inside. _

“How very odd.” Alexio ran his tongue around his mouth, sucked in another few CCs of Cas’s marrow.

“No good?” Dean asked, trying his damndest not to let his hope slip into his voice. If Cas tasted bad, then surely Alexio would stop eating him, right?

Alexio ran his tongue around his mouth again, shook his head. “Just . . . different. Not like  _ you _ , of course, but . . . Spicy, almost. Not like any other human I’ve tasted.” He turned to Dean, narrowed his eyes a little like maybe he thought Dean and Cas were connected in some way they’d neglected to mention. “It’s terribly strange to find the only two deviations in my very, very long life at the same time, don’t you think?”

Dean shrugged, innocent as could be. “Maybe it’s the water.”

Alexio’s eyes narrowed a little more. “It’s not the water, Dean.”

“Then maybe it’s you. Maybe your taste buds have changed, or something.”

Alexio seemed to consider this. Lips pursed, eyes upturned. But then he shook his head. “I ate Jimmy just weeks past, and he tasted normal.”

Dean shrugged again. “I dunno what to tell you, man. Not exactly my area of expertise, you know?” He gestured at the syringe, still three-quarters full. “You should eat that before it goes bad. Is it all right if I help Cas into bed? He looks wrecked.”

Alexio waved absentmindedly, said, “Yes, yes, of course,” and then went back to contemplating his supper.

Dean made up Cas’s bed while Alexio ate, then unstrapped Cas from the table. Dude was out cold and couldn’t be roused ( _ it’s just the drugs don’t worry it’s nothing serious it’s just the drugs _ ), so Dean hefted him bridal style--and no, it was totally not in any way weird or heady to be carrying the guy skin to skin like this when they were both ass naked; Dean was only flushing from strain cos Cas weighed so damn much--and carried him over to bed to tuck him in. 

Which was  _ of course  _ the moment Cas decided to come around, gripping Dean’s wrist with startling strength and pulling him in close. “ _ Dean _ .” Urgent, like he’d been trying to get Dean’s attention for an hour. 

Dean leaned in even closer so he could murmur by Cas’s ear. That way maybe Cas would murmur back, which was way less risky if, in his drugged state, he ended up saying something dangerous for Alexio to hear. “Yeah, Cas? I’m here, buddy.”

“Why does my back hurt so much?”

The distress in his voice broke Dean’s heart all over again. “Marrow-eating monster, remember?”

Somehow, even lying down on his stomach, Cas managed that squinty head-tilty thing that reminded Dean so much of baby birds. 

“Okay look, just trust me, okay? You’ll feel better in the morning, and I’ll explain everything then. Just close your eyes now, okay? You’re safe, I’m safe, Sam’s safe, so just . . . sleep. Okay?”

Cas blinked up at him with so much more trust than he could ever deserve. He’d  _ lied  _ to Cas. Thrown him out on the street when he’d needed Dean the most. And yet here he was meeting Dean’s eyes like all the answers in the universe were swirling around in them, like he knew  _ absolutely  _ that Dean would explain things when they mattered, that Dean could be counted on to know when that was. 

Dean didn’t deserve that. Couldn’t even fucking bear to look at it. So he gave Cas’s shoulder a perfunctory squeeze and backed away.

By then it seemed Alexio had finished his meal, and had also apparently come up silently behind Dean, because he startled the shit outta him by dropping a hand on his shoulder from outta nowhere. Dean whirled around, good hand grabbing Alexio’s thumb and palm and torquing by instinct. Dude was like a fucking stone statue, though, too heavy and strong to move even with leverage and pressure points.

Dean stepped back and threw his hands up, heart thrashing. “I’m sorry,” he rushed to say, lest Alexio think Dean had really intended to attack him. He dropped his eyes, looked up at Alexio through his lashes. “Instinct. My bad.”

Alexio grinned softly and put his own hands up. “It’s all right, Dean. I shouldn’t have startled you. I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

Dean licked his lips, swallowed, nodded. When Alexio was this friendly, he wanted something. And since he’d already eaten tonight, that only left one extremely unpalatable option.

“So, uh . . . yeah, look. Thank you, again, for, um . . .” Dean hooked a thumb over his shoulder at Cas. “For him. You’re right; I’m seriously damn grateful you didn’t feed from me tonight.”

Like clockwork, Alexio beamed. 

“But uh--” Dean faked a jaw-cracking yawn. “But I’m super tired, dude, so uh . . .” He inched past Alexio, toward his own cell. “I think I’m just gonna hit the hay, okay?”

Alexio followed him. “I’ll join you.”

That wasn’t even fucking  _ close  _ to a question. Dude had bought him dinner and now he expected Dean to put out, and the scariest thing about it was that Dean couldn’t figure out how to say no without risking Cas.

“Bed’s not really big enough for two guys our size,” he tried.

“Of course it is. Jimmy and I fit just fine, and he was bigger than you.”

God damn it. Dean stopped in front of the bed, turned around to face Alexio. Brought out the big guns--touched his arm again and threw him puppy-dog eyes. “Look, Alexio, I’m really grateful for everything you did today, I am. But it’s been a long, stressful day, and my hand is killing me, and I just need to sleep, okay?”

Alexio’s hopeful smile slowly faded. He reached out to cup Dean’s cheek again--and, wow, that was getting old fast--stroked a thumb below Dean’s eye and said, “I’m so sorry, I should’ve asked earlier. Do you need something for the pain?”

Still holding Alexio’s gaze, Dean nodded. Had to mask his disappointment when, instead of  _ leaving Dean alone  _ and going upstairs to fetch some Tylenol, Alexio just fished a packet of it out of his pocket. The packet, Dean realized with a flash of both guilt and fury, that Alexio  _hadn't_ given to Cas.

He pressed it into Dean’s good hand. “Sit. I’ll get you some water.”

Dean did more than sit. He climbed into bed, laid down, tucked in tight under the covers, and prayed that Alexio would catch a fucking clue. Glanced across the other cage to Cas’s bed while the tap was running, and was startled to see Cas looking back.

_ Go the fuck to sleep, Cas. Please. You can’t watch this. You  _ can’t _. _

Apparently they needed to work on their silent communication, because Cas just blinked and squinted at him and decidedly did  _ not  _ close his eyes.

Whatever he did next, Dean couldn’t stick around to see, because Alexio was coming back and no way could Dean let that crazy fuck catch Dean watching Cas. So he turned his attention back to Alexio, held out a hand for the water and thanked him like a good dog. Took the pills. Fought the urge to count the seconds until they’d kick in. Not like they’d make much difference anyway. 

Not like he’d even  _ notice  _ his damn hand if Alexio decided to take what he so clearly wanted. Which he was probably gonna, seeing as he’d just sat himself down on the bed by Dean’s hip.

_ Cas is watching.  _ Dean could feel the weight of that squinty gaze on the back of his head.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit  _ shit _ .

Alexio reached up and slowly drew the covers back from Dean’s torso. Licked his lips. Stared.

Dean wanted to cling to his blankets, but even he knew what a terrible idea that was. If this was gonna go down, he needed it to go down gently. Couldn’t watch over Cas if he couldn’t even walk.

Still, he had to try to stop it. Met Alexio’s roving eyes, ducked his head and said, soft and desperate, “Alexio, please. I’ve barely healed from the last time.”

Hunger faded beneath regret, and Alexio laid a gentle hand on Dean’s chest, right over his heart. “I never wanted to hurt you like that, Dean. Gods willing, you’ll never make me have to again.”

Oh, so that was  _ Dean’s  _ fault? Fuck that noise. He squirmed out from beneath Alexio’s hand, scowled. “I didn’t  _ make  _ you do anything, chief. And I hate to break it to you, but no matter what you do or don’t  _ want  _ to do with that thing, you stick it inside me again, you’re gonna hurt me like that. You’re hung like a fucking horse.”

“Bull,” Alexio snapped.

Shit. Dean should’ve watched his fucking mouth and  _ not pissed off the violent rapist.  _ “I’m sorry,” he said, even though he wasn’t. “But I don’t see how any of that isn’t true.”

A flickering smile broke through Alexio’s anger. “No, I meant I’m hung like a  _ bull _ , not a horse. Though to be fair, the average bull penis is about three feet long; you should be grateful I’m only  _ half  _ bull.”

Dean drew the covers up to his chin again. Alexio let him. “Whatever you are, it’s too big not to hurt me.”

That flickering smile returned, lasted a little longer this time. “Bull,” Alexio said again. Great--dude was a regular fucking comedian. “I’ve brought hundreds, maybe thousands of men a great deal of pleasure throughout my life. I’ll do the same for you if only you’d let me.”

Alexio laid a hand on Dean’s blanket-covered thigh, slid it slowly upward until he was cupping Dean’s soft cock through not nearly enough layers of fabric. Dean wanted to draw his knees up, move away, but he’d already backed himself into the bars; he was out of bed and out of excuses Alexio would tolerate.

Begging it was, then. “Please don’t do this, Alexio. I told you, I don’t  _ want  _ this. If you care about me like you say you do, you won’t force me.”

Alexio sighed, pursed his lips into a little frown. Turned his gaze to Cas--though his hand stayed stubbornly on Dean’s crotch--and said, “I suppose I could sate my hunger with him, if that’s what you really want.”

Shit.  _ Shit.  _ Dean froze, kinda forgot how to breathe for like three solid seconds. “No.  _ No _ . Don’t you touch him, Alexio.”

The hand on Dean’s dick squeezed gently, stroked. Alexio met Dean’s panicked gaze with chiding eyes. “You can’t demand I save myself only for you in one breath and tell me you don’t want me in the next.”

_ Shit.  _ He had to bite back the  _ I  _ don’t  _ want you  _ that rose to his tongue. Too fucking dangerous. God knew how this asshole could be so deluded about Dean’s motives, but it was probably keeping both him and Cas safe, so he couldn’t really afford to fuck with it. 

_ Shit again.  _ Because that only left one way to play this: taking one for the team.

Well, whatever. That was why people kept Dean around, after all. What he was good at. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, held it, blew it out slowly. Met Alexio’s intent stare. Alexio’s hand was still working his cock through the blanket, and Dean was mortified to realize he was chubbing up at the attention. Felt heat rising in his cheeks, all the way to the tips of his damn ears, and said, “You’re right. I’m sorry. Just . . . just be gentle with me, okay? Not . . .” He looked away--the shy, blushing bride. “Not like the first two times. You gotta promise me.”

“I promise, Dean. I’ll make you feel so good.”

_ No. Don’t do that, I don’t want that. Just don’t wreck me. _

Alexio gave Dean’s dick one final squeeze, and then he moved his hand up to the hem of the blanket still tucked beneath Dean’s chin, gave it a little tug and bared Dean to the knees. Leaned in to place a long, lingering kiss above Dean’s heart, and whispered into his skin, “Trust me, Dean. Let me take care of you.”

Dean closed his eyes and thought of Cas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coercive sexual assault toward the end of this chapter.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilery trigger warning in the end notes. (Same trigger as usual.)

Thinking of Cas was a mistake. A terrible,  _ terrible  _ mistake. Because Cas was  _ watching _ , and it was one thing to be monster-raped, but it was another thing  _ entirely  _ to be monster-raped in front of an audience who mattered to you. And who cared enough about you in return to have come looking for you, to have been caught for you, to have been  _ eaten alive  _ for you. Who probably wouldn’t have hesitated to grab his ankles for you, because Cas was a selfless son of a bitch like that and because he didn’t know any better and because if it would kill Cas to watch Dean be hurt like this even half as much as it’d kill Dean to watch it happen to Cas, well . . .

On the plus side, that line of thought had killed his half-formed hard-on. On the minus side, Alexio seemed determined to bring it back. He mouthed his way down Dean’s stomach, swapped his stroking hand for lips and tongue and Dean slammed his eyes closed, fisted the sheets,  _ don’t enjoy this don’t enjoy this don’t you fucking  _ dare  _ enjoy this-- _

But Alexio’s mouth was warm and velvety smooth, just the right pressure and suction, tongue curling and teasing and  _ Jesus Christ _ , if he’d been a chick, if he’d been someone Dean had  _ chosen _ , he would’ve nutted already like a virgin teen.

Alexio sucked in a breath through his nose and swallowed Dean down to the root, throat hot and tight around him, massaging him as Alexio swallowed. Dean choked back a moan, grabbed at Alexio’s hair, not to hold him in place but to pull him off. 

“ _ Stop _ ,” he gasped. Alexio didn’t stop, and no amount of yanking on his hair made him move. “Wait.  _ Please _ . Stop!”

_ Finally  _ Alexio pulled off, tonguing a long firm stripe up Dean’s shaft along the way. He peered up Dean’s chest, licked his smiling lips. “It’s all right, Dean. I  _ want  _ you to come in my mouth. I’m  _ aching  _ to taste you.”

Before Dean could argue that that wasn’t what he’d meant, Alexio dove back in, deep-throating Dean in one smooth stroke and oh holy fuck he was gonna end up doing exactly what Alexio wanted after all, was gonna come in this monster’s mouth and he couldn’t stop it, wasn’t strong enough to resist the pleasure Alexio was inflicting--and just what kind of weak, sad, sick fuck  _ got off  _ on his own rape anyway?

“ _ Please _ ,” he begged, straight-up  _ begged _ , wasn’t too proud for it, not anymore, not now that he could feel his balls drawing up, his dick twitching in another man’s mouth--no, a  _ monster’s  _ mouth, a rapist people-eating  _ monster  _ and just what did that make Dean for getting off on it so hard? “You gotta-- Please, you gotta stop.” He batted at Alexio’s head, and when that didn’t work, he gave up getting Alexio to stop and decided to make  _ himself  _ stop. Slammed his splinted hand against the cage bars as hard as he could, and yeah, sure, Dean liked a little pain with his sex, sometimes even kind of a lot of pain, but not like  _ that _ , that sharp sick hot-cold crush of agony. Dean cried out, broke into an instant sweat, felt nausea swell in his gut and his balls try to crawl into his belly.

Totally worth it, though. His dick went soft in Alexio’s mouth, and Alexio, finally catching a clue that that’d been a pain shout and not a pleasure one, lifted his head to see what’d happened.

Dean cradled his hand to his chest and tried very hard not to cry. It wasn’t just how bad that’d hurt, and it wasn’t just reflex tears either. But he wasn’t willing to look too hard at the other causes, felt weak-willed enough right now without digging for extra reasons to hate himself. 

And god, he could literally  _ feel  _ Cas’s gaze on him from across the other cage. Couldn’t bear to look too hard at the reasons for  _ that _ , either. At what Cas must’ve been thinking.

Alexio sat back on his haunches, legs straddling Dean’s calves, brows creased deep and mouth turned down. “What happened? Did you hit your hand?” 

Fucker had no right to look that distressed at Dean’s pain while he was fucking  _ raping him _ .

“Yeah,” Dean choked out. God, the pain was fucking  _ astounding _ . “Too close to the bars, I guess. Got a little excited, and . . .” He grimaced, squeezed his forearm as hard as he could--had no idea why that helped, but it did. “ _ Fuck _ , this hurts.”

“Let me see.” That was the last fucking thing Dean wanted, but it got Alexio off his legs, so he supposed he’d take it. Alexio resettled himself on the bed by Dean’s hip, one leg curled up on the mattress, the other over the side. Reached for Dean’s hand, picked it up as gingerly as if he were handling a baby bird. 

Dean turned his head away. Toward Cas. Who was still lying on his side, watching Dean and Alexio in stony silence. If he’d had his mojo, Dean’d bet money there’d be thunder rumbling outside right now.

Alexio touched his fingers. Did something wickedly painful, but Cas was still staring at him so Dean controlled his face, didn’t let his hurt show. If those bones hadn’t been broken before, at least some of them probably were now. 

“I don’t think it needs re-splinting,” Alexio said, still holding Dean’s hand in the air, turning it this way and that. “But you need ice.” A big, gusty, frustrated sigh. “I’ll go fetch you some.”

“Thanks, Alexio.” Phew. Crisis averted--for now. 

At some point during this whole debacle, Alexio had pulled his very big, very hard dick out of his pants, and he didn’t bother to tuck it back in before letting himself out of the cage. But Dean chose not to take that as a bad sign. Dude lived alone, after all, and he was moving with some urgency, so maybe he just didn’t wanna make Dean wait for him to figure out how to shove that foot-long back into his clothes while it was still practically hitting him in the chin. 

Or maybe he was the kind of guy who figured a few broken bones was no reason to end the fun.

_ Please not the second thing. Just let  _ one thing  _ go right for me for once, would you? _

“How bad is it?”

Cas. Shit. Dean rolled his head on his pillow, found Cas still curled on his side, staring at him like a goddamned stone statue. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not ‘fine,’ Dean. Nothing’s  _ fine _ . He hurt you, and he’ll do it again.”

Oh no. No. Dean didn’t like where this was going  _ at all _ . Cas wasn’t supposed to understand this shit, and he was  _ definitely  _ not supposed to be feeling _ sorry  _ for Dean. Dean wasn’t the one who’d lost his grace, his brothers and sisters, his home. Wasn’t even the one who’d been  _ eaten  _ tonight. No, the only thing that’d happened to Dean tonight was a world-class, grade-a blowjob. 

“I’m the one who banged my hand into the bars, Cas. Not him.”

Cas’s eyes narrowed practically to slits. “Don’t play dumb with me, Dean. I’m not some monster to be tricked.”

Great. What the fuck was he supposed to do with  _ that _ ? He sighed, rolled his head away, stared up at the ceiling. “What’s your point, Cas?”

“Let him use me--”

“ _ No _ .” 

“I’m an ang--” Dean’s frantic handwaving shut Cas up at the last possible second, and when he had Cas’s silent attention, he pointed at the cameras mounted all around the room. Cas nodded, but then started right back up again--just a little more careful this time. “I’m . . . not from around here, Dean. Intercourse bears no cultural weight for me, carries no baggage. Holds no meaning beyond simple bodily function unless I choose to assign it one.”

Must be nice to be so goddamn cold, to just  _ decide  _ that being raped wasn’t the kind of trauma you bury in a lead fucking box. And fine, maybe it wouldn’t fuck up Cas’s head, but no way it wouldn’t fuck up his body. Dean met Cas’s eyes again, pushed as much worry and fear and concern into his gaze as he could. “He’ll  _ hurt _ you, Cas.”

Cas threw back his blankets, stood up. Buck naked and not a care in the world about it, like he didn’t even notice. And when had he gotten all that ink on his torso? “He’ll hurt you. How is that any better?”

“Cos you’re here because of  _ me _ , Cas!” Dean flung back his own blankets, stood too. Wanted to walk over there and shake Cas, but Alexio would be back any second and he couldn’t risk it. “You ain’t taking this hit for me, you hear me?”

Cas didn’t seem to be concerned about proximity, because he crossed his cage in five angry strides and stopped before Dean, too close, folded his arms across his chest and scowled. Drugs must’ve been wearing off, for better or worse. “I’m here because of a  _ case.  _ Just like you are.” When Dean didn’t respond to that, Cas added, “And if I offer myself? How would you stop me?”

_ By offering myself too. He doesn’t want you. He wants  _ me _ , you stupid, selfless, self-destructive ass _ . 

. . . Which, yeah, okay, was maybe kinda describing himself just as much as Cas, wasn’t it.

Dean’s shoulders slumped, and he backed down, sat on his bed with a sigh. Dropped his head into his good hand and let his face crumple, just for a moment, beneath the weight of this whole fucking mess.  _ Shit _ , his right hand hurt. Like, really seriously fucking  _ hurt _ , and his heart wasn’t doing much better. “Just . . .  _ please _ , Cas. Go back to bed. Go to sleep. Let me handle this. I’m begging you, man. I can’t . . .” He turned his face up to Cas, whose stormy expression was slowly fading. “I can’t watch that happen to you, okay? I  _ can’t _ .”

Cas’s face went so soft so fast it kinda gave Dean whiplash. He laid a hand on Dean’s unbandaged shoulder, painfully gentle. “And what makes you think  _ I  _ can watch it happen to  _ you _ ?”

_ Oh god.  _ What the actual fuck was that feeling inside his chest, all tight and hot and manic like his heart was skipping beats. Racing. Almost like panic, and he didn’t have an answer to Cas’s question, had  _ no fucking idea  _ what to say to him or how to keep looking into those big blue eyes shining with sincerity and pain and--

And he never thought he’d actually be  _ relieved  _ to hear Alexio keying himself into the room, yet here they were. Cas, thank god, was smart enough to realize he’d better not be found with his hand on Dean’s naked shoulder, and he scurried off to his sink--which was closer than his bed--before Alexio had made it far enough into the room to catch him.

Cas pretended studiously at washing his face while Alexio walked a pair of cold packs and an ace bandage over to Dean and used the wrap to affix the cold packs to both sides of Dean’s splinted hand.

Then he sat down on the bed by Dean’s hip again. His cock was still hanging out of his pants. It was still rock hard. “How’s that feel?” he asked.

“Cold.” Dean’s eyes darted to Alexio’s face, slid back to Alexio’s cock where it was draped over his thigh like a forearm. It pulled Dean’s focus like a fucking magnet. How could anyone look at anything that goddamn huge and not run screaming?

“Feel better?”

Dean dragged his eyes up to Alexio’s face again. “No.”

Alexio slid a hand onto Dean’s leg. “I could help you forget your p--”

“No, you can’t. The way this is throbbing, I don’t have a chance in hell of getting aroused right now. If you gotta take care of that--” he nodded his chin at Alexio’s erection “--that’s fine, I get it. I still got one working hand, even; I can help you if that’s what you really want.” Because no way was he gonna let Alexio go to Cas, no matter what Cas had said on the matter. Anyway, a handjob was nothing. Easy. He’d dished them out for as little as ten bucks a pop back in the day, when he was way less desperate than he felt now. “But me? I just wanna close my eyes and try to sleep through the worst of this, okay?”

Alexio looked deeply unhappy, but he sighed and stood and said, “It’s all right, Dean. I’d never ask you to tend me when you’re in such pain.” He bent to curl a hand around the back of Dean’s neck, drop a gentle kiss on the crown of Dean’s head. “Rest, my precious human. There’s always tomorrow.”

Too bad tomorrow was  _ exactly  _ what Dean was afraid of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coercive rape at the start of the chapter.


	21. Chapter 21

Cas wanted to talk. Dean didn’t. But he dutifully sat on Cas’s bed and leaned in close enough for Cas to share info without the cameras hearing. Close enough to see the different shades of blue in Cas’s eyes, to see the creases in his chapped lips. Close enough even to  _ smell  _ him, human as he was now, sweat and fear and exhaustion and pain beneath a hint of coffee and cheap soap.

“Sam grew worried when you didn’t return from the bar. When he realized you’d likely been taken, he interviewed the waitstaff, the bartender, and a number of patrons, but came to no conclusions. That was when he called me to assist.”

“Alexio said he paid off the bartender to drug us. How did Sam miss that?”

Cas shrugged, frowning. “I don’t know. It seems the bartender is an accomplished liar.”

Must’ve been one smooth motherfucker for sure, to drop a roofie into Dean’s drink without Dean noticing. 

“Sam remained suspicious of him, but there was little we could do but observe. As there were a number of other leads to follow, Sam suggested we split up.” Cas stopped, rubbed at his right temple like he was picking up angel radio or something. But probably it was way more benign than that; the poor guy just had a headache.

“Need some water?”

“Yes, please.”

Dean got it for him, sat beside him again as he thanked Dean and then chugged it down. When he was done, a fat drop of water glistened on his lower lip before he licked it away, then dove back into his story. 

“I surveilled the bar for nearly a week before making headway with three elderly gentlemen who’d been frequenting the establishment for decades. They had seen nine disappearances in that time, and one insisted he’d seen a very tall, broad-shouldered man at the bar prior to each one. He said the man never aged. He saw him the night you disappeared.”

“Don’t suppose you got a name?”

“I’m afraid not. But Sam took his description and was checking it against a number of databases, last we spoke. He’ll identify Alexio soon, I’m certain of it. And once he does, he’ll find this place.”

Damn straight he would. Sam was one of the smartest guys in the world. And it sounded like Zeke was letting Sam work, so maybe . . .

Cas sighed. “If I were still an angel, I could simply have performed a location spell and found you in moments.”

Oh no. None of that. Dean squeezed Cas’s shoulder with his good hand. “Cas . . . Don’t, man. Don’t do that to yourself. This ain’t your fault.”

“Sam attempted one the day you disappeared, but he doesn’t possess the power to perform it without the proper magical object or a piece of your flesh.” Yeah, like the big old tripod thingy that’d burned down along with Bobby’s house. “Neither do I, anymore, it seems.”

Dean squeezed Cas’s shoulder again, harder this time. Less comfort, more warning. “I mean it, Cas. You go down that road, you’ll go crazy. Especially in here. What matters is that you tried.” Cas’s eyes were shining, and Dean realized he’d leaned in so damn close their foreheads were practically touching. Knew that was dangerous--that Alexio could be watching, that he had no damn business being up Cas’s ass like that in any case--but couldn’t quite make himself pull away. Cas wasn’t moving either, so what the hell. “You didn’t give up. You kept on searching the human way when the angel way failed. That  _ matters _ , Cas. That’s  _ all  _ that matters.”

Cas sucked in a deep breath, let it out in a noisy sigh. “And yet I’ve failed again. Now I’m stuck here too.”

Well, if Dean couldn’t talk Cas out of beating himself up, maybe he could just kinda gently steer him away from it. “What happened, anyway? Do you know?”

Cas shook his head. “I took my usual seat in the bar when it opened this afternoon. I didn’t see Alexio, but clearly he’d been there. One moment I was drinking my coffee, the next moment I was in a car, disoriented, weak. I remember very little, but I’m quite certain I was moved from one vehicle to another. In a park, perhaps? I recall trees.” He shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut like the motion hurt him. “I’m sorry, I don’t know.”

If Cas was handed off, that meant that even if Sam  _ could  _ crack the bartender, the guy wouldn’t be able to tell him where Alexio lived. Only where Alexio met with him to pick up his victims. Which he wouldn’t be doing again anytime soon, what with two perfectly serviceable ones already filling up his basement.

“All right, that’s okay, buddy. We can’t do anything with the information from in here anyway.” Except pray to an angel who clearly wasn’t listening, so why bother? Besides, he couldn’t tell Cas that, couldn’t bear the way he knew Cas would look at him once he heard the truth. “We just gotta hang on, wait for Sam to find us. Okay?”

Cas was doing that squinting-scowling thing that meant he was seriously goddamn unhappy--or maybe it was just the headache, who knew--but there wasn’t anything Dean could do about  _ that _ , either. So he just leaned back to put some breathing room between them, patted Cas’s bare knee--unfortunately, Alexio had taken Cas’s clothes with him when he’d left--and said, “What say we hit the sack? Alexio’ll be down with breakfast bright and early, and you’ve had a rough day.”

“As have you. You know we need to talk about it, Dean.”

“No, we don’t.”

“I can  _ help _ \--”

“I said  _ no _ , Cas. I ain’t letting him lay a single fucking  _ finger  _ on you like that, end of discussion.”

“But Dean--”

“End. Of. Discussion.”

Cas was fuming, no doubt about it, but it looked like he was conceding for now. He scowled down at his lap instead of up at Dean, and said nothing else.

Dean clapped him on the knee again and stood. “Alrighty then. Now that that’s settled, bed. You gotta sleep now that you’re . . .” Cameras, shit. He wasn’t half-whispering in Cas’s ear anymore. “. . . you know.”

Cas knew damn well, though he settled back downright mulishly, scowling at the bed and the blanket and the pillow and his own body as he tucked himself in, still clearly bitter at his need for all of it. He laid down carefully on his stomach, back no doubt hurting from the extraction, and closed his eyes under Dean’s watchful stare. 

Cas slept. Dean didn’t. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, though. It wasn’t even because the lights never went out in the cage these days--that bothered him a little, but he’d learned to sleep anywhere, anytime, in pretty much any conditions a good thirty years ago. Or because of his aches and pains, although they were louder than usual what with fireworks going off in his hand with every heartbeat and flashbangs exploding with blinding, head-bursting phosphorescence every time he accidentally twitched a finger. No, mostly it was that Cas was so very, painfully _human_ now, and still shaking off the drugs, and Dean had watched him be _eaten alive_ and oh, by the way, threatened with both rape _and_ death, and Alexio was just thirty-four seconds away if he decided he wasn’t willing to wait until tomorrow for more of any one of those things after all. 

So Dean sat down again at the foot of Cas’s bed, back against the bars and good hand on Cas’s calf, eyes fixed on everything and nothing at once, and kept vigil while Cas slept. Because Dean might not be able to stop Alexio from hurting him, from . . . from  _ using  _ him, but he could damn well stop Alexio from hurting Cas. Cas had lost enough already.

So Dean sat guard through the night. Thought about Sam still out there somewhere, looking for them. Thought about how hard Cas had tried, how terrible the poor guy felt--all that guilt and helplessness and self-loathing that Dean knew so painfully well, that he wouldn’t have wished on just about anyone, let alone his best friend. Tried not to think too hard about how good it was to see Cas again, about what it meant that Cas had given up weeks of his time and effort, risked his life and safety, to find Dean--even after Dean had thrown him out at his weakest and most vulnerable. And how, even now, Cas was trying to take the heat for him, offering himself up to be fed on, to be raped, and all to protect Dean. How could anyone so pure and good keep sticking around someone as fucked-up as him? How had he gotten so  _ lucky _ ?

And how long could that luck possibly last?

* * *

Cas slept straight through the night, waking only to the sound of the outer door unlocking. He looked groggy and disheveled and momentarily confused--both by where he was and by Dean’s presence at the foot of his bed, if his roving, squinty gaze was anything to go on--but he also looked alert, on edge, ready to make a move. He sat up, wincing and reaching for the puncture wound on his back left hip, as Alexio closed the outer door. Didn’t seem to notice or care that he was naked, although when his gaze darted back to Dean, his eyes did a quick up-down, lingering for an instant too long around Dean’s hips. Now, granted, that could’ve just been an assessment of all the damage down there, deep bruising puncture wounds atop deep bruising puncture wounds--not to mention those  _ other  _ bruises, the one made by fingers and thumb. But maybe it was a different kind of surprise.

Dean blushed, grabbed the corner of Cas’s blanket and tugged it over his lap. Then leaned in close to Cas just long enough to whisper, “Follow my lead.”

In other words:  _ Don’t rush the big bad minotaur when he opens the door. It won’t end well. _

Cas nodded.

Alexio froze for a second when he saw Dean sitting up in Cas’s bed, knuckles tightening around the edge of the tray he was holding, and Dean realized what a mistake he’d made. He’d just assumed Alexio had checked the cameras before coming down, but maybe he hadn’t? Or maybe he had, but it was different in person than on a screen. Or maybe he’d been jealous from the start, and had frozen to gather his control, rather than in surprise.

Either way, he should’ve gotten on his own damn bed before 7. He just hadn’t quite been able to make himself leave Cas’s side.

So, now all that left was damage control.

“Morning, Alexio!” And yeah okay, maybe practically chirping that greeting was a little  _ too  _ much fake-friendliness, but he was exhausted and his head and ribs and shoulder and hips hurt and his hand felt like a fifty-pound hive of angry bees and he wanted to stab Alexio in the face with the burning passion of a thousand suns, so sue him. He was lucky he’d even gotten the words out at all.

And anyway, Alexio unfroze long enough to say, “Good morning, Dean,” so he hadn’t screwed things up after all.

Which Dean took as his cue to get up and meet Alexio in his own cell, striding naked and fake-confident . . . and  _ painfully  _ self-conscious between the rapist fuck watching him come and his best friend watching him go, though he was way too professional to let it show. He stopped about a foot in front of Alexio, only the loaded breakfast tray between them. Nodded down at the tray and said, “Looks awesome, thanks.”

A hesitant smile cracked Alexio’s stony features. “May I sit with you while you eat?”

Probably no way to say no to that without Alexio ripping someone’s arm off, so Dean pushed a crooked smile onto his face and shrugged his good shoulder and said, “Sure.” Then he headed over to the little table in his cell, Alexio on his heels, and turned to Cas, who was sitting up in bed, looking wary. “Joining us, Cas?”

“ _ No _ .” Dean startled at Alexio’s vehement snarl, and Alexio had the good grace to look chastened. “I just meant,” he said, lowering the tray to the table and himself into one of the two chairs, “that there are only two chairs here.”  _ Smooth, Alexio, real smooth. _ “He can eat whatever you leave over. I made plenty.”

That much, at least, was true; there was three times as much food on the tray as usual. For all that Alexio clearly despised Cas, he needed to keep him fed if he was gonna keep feeding on him, and he seemed to accept that.

Dean’s stomach was kinda off, but he chugged his coffee black and it sat just fine. So, food it was then. There were no spare plates on the tray, so Dean dumped the bacon on top of the scrambled eggs and then scraped half the mix onto the now-empty bacon plate. Then he stuck two waffles on top of that and poured maple syrup--the real stuff, not that cheap fake shit every diner ever served--on top of everything. And then, since Alexio was watching him with a critical eye, he grabbed the bowl of fruit salad and ate half of that first.

He caught Cas watching him out of the corner of his eye, staring at the food like a stray dog and rubbing at his hip below the extraction wound.  _ Shit. _

“Hey, uh, don’t suppose you brought down any painkillers?”

“Of course.” Dean would never be able to figure out how anyone who could do the things Alexio had done to him could go on to look so miserable at the thought of his pain, yet here they were. Alexio pulled a packet of Tylenol from his pocket, slid it across the little table.

“Thanks.” Dean picked it up but didn’t take them. Wished he had a pocket but settled for slipping it between his leg and the seat of the chair for safekeeping.

“Take them,” Alexio said, face and voice gone cold and hard.

“I will. Just wanna eat first.”

His expression didn’t budge. “Tylenol doesn’t upset an empty stomach; it’s why I use it.”

“Guess I’m just a special snowflake, then.”

Alexio’s eyes narrowed to slits, and Dean pressed back in his chair as the fucker’s face  _ wavered _ , hint of snout and fangs and horns and for one very, very long second, Dean braced himself for a metric fuckton of ugly.

But then Alexio went back to human, and through clenched teeth he growled, “Take them now, or there will be no more, ever.” His eyes slid over Dean’s shoulder, to Cas. “They are not for  _ him _ . Ever.” Gaze back on Dean now, frozen moss on hard rocks. “Am I clear?”

Dean was  _ sick and fucking tired  _ of being ordered around like some snot-nosed kid, of being nothing but some  _ tool  _ again, some thing to use when it was convenient and put away when it wasn’t and browbeat and threaten and hit when it malfunctioned. Sick and fucking tired of being  _ afraid  _ of Alexio, of letting that fear rule him. He needed some fucking control over his life in here, no matter how small--no matter how self-destructive, even. Arguing now was fucking  _ stupid _ , he knew that, he  _ knew  _ that, but he just . . . couldn’t help it.

He wished he were strong enough not to show his fear as he took his stand, but that just wasn’t the case. Not anymore, not since . . . He swallowed hard but held Alexio’s gaze as he retrieved the Tylenol packet, held it up for Alexio to see, and then tossed it over his shoulder, hard and unerring, straight through the bars toward Cas’s bed.

Let Cas decide if it was worth it to him--probably not; two Tylenol wouldn’t make a dent in the beating he’d take for them, and he hadn’t been stuck down here long enough to rebel like that--but Dean’s rebellion was complete.

And for two whole seconds, he felt  _ fucking fantastic  _ about it.

Right up until Alexio’s face did that  _ thing  _ again, except instead of flicking he went full-on bull this time, and he rose from his chair, slow, menacing,  _ towering  _ over Dean. But Dean held his ground anyway, didn’t shy away or even drop his eyes from the visceral horror looming above him because he’d  _ meant  _ what he’d done, damn it, and he wasn’t gonna say sorry for it, and he was fucking  _ done  _ being bullied.

Er, no pun intended.

Alexio’s fists balled, and his chest heaved, gusting breaths ruffling Dean’s hair. A soft, low growl rumbled from his throat, and his huge fucking pointy teeth were bared, but for all that he just  _ stood  _ there, saying nothing, doing nothing.

They stared each other down for a solid minute. Maybe more.

And then Alexio spun abruptly, stormed to the door, and left.

Dean blinked. Blinked again. Sucked in a breath when he realized he’d kind of forgotten to do that maybe all the way back since Alexio had fuglied up.

Holy shit. 

No, but seriously:  _ Holy shit.  _

He’d stood down Alexio, and he’d won. _ _


	22. Chapter 22

Dean’s hands were shaking, his heart thrashing . . . but he  _ laughed _ . Felt fucking  _ fantastic _ , in fact. Kept laughing all the way until a hand curled on his shoulder and he nearly jumped outta his skin.

“That was very foolish, Dean.”

Cas--Mr. Scowly McScowlerson--solemn and worried behind him. Dean stood, less to get away from that concern than because the hard cold chairs were miserable on his dangling junk, and paced over to his bed. Plopped down with enough force to bounce a little on the mattress. Kept bouncing because  _ he’d faced down Alexio and won, fuck yeah. _

Scowly McScowlerson followed him to the bed. Sat down beside him and said, “Dean.” Dean bounced harder just to make Cas bounce.

“ _ Dean _ .”

Dean stilled. “ _ What _ , Cas?”

Cas turned to face Dean, and his eyes were so damn  _ troubled _ , his lips pulled into such a tight pucker Dean would’ve made an asshole joke if it hadn’t made him so damn queasy just to  _ think  _ about assholes these days. Cas looked like maybe he wanted to touch Dean, fingers flexing in his lap--worrying at the Tylenol packet, he must’ve picked it up--but he kept his hands to himself. They were probably too close to each other already for Alexio’s jealousy.

Cas dropped his eyes to his lap, sighed, expression settling somewhere between angry and touched. “You didn’t have to do that for me.”

If only Dean had been that selfless, that good or pure. That much like  _ Cas _ . “I  _ didn’t  _ do it for you, Cas. Wish I had, to be honest, but I knew damn well you couldn’t take those in front of him.” Now it was his turn to look at his own lap, because somehow it’d only just occurred to him that Alexio, despite his promise, might have taken his anger out on Cas and not Dean. He mentally played connect the dots with the freckles on his thighs to suppress that horrifying thought before adding, “I did it for me.”

Cas’s silence was extra weighty, and went on long enough for Dean to turn his head, see what he could read on Cas’s face. Cas’s expression was just as heavy as his silence, infinitely sad, no hint of anger in sight, even though there should’ve been.

Cas met his eyes. Reached up to touch Dean--his cheek, maybe, like Alexio did sometimes, and Dean found himself closing his eyes and leaning into it with a soft little sigh and feeling bitterly disappointed when it never came. Cas’s hand was back in his lap again; good thing at least one of them was keeping the cameras and Alexio’s temper in mind today.

Cas smiled a soft, sad little smile at Dean and said, “I understand.” Then took Dean’s good hand in his own, and pressed the Tylenol packet into his palm. “Now take these and go rest. I know you didn’t sleep last night.”

Dean wanted to argue, but he held his tongue. He knew damn well Alexio was watching them through the cameras, knew damn well Cas couldn’t take those pills no matter how much Dean wished he could. And as for himself, they’d probably be the last relief, however slim, that he’d ever get down here again.

So he took the pills. Swallowed them dry. Said to Cas, “Eat your breakfast,” trying not to sound as dejected as he felt.

Cas curled a hand above Dean’s knee and gave him a firm squeeze before standing to do just that. Dean crawled into bed and watched Cas eat while all those angry bees jammed poison into his hand ( _ wasps, angry  _ wasps _ ; bees can only sting once _ ) and worry ate away at his exhaustion.

Eventually, he slept.

* * *

He woke to the sound of the main room door opening, and to the feel of the mattress shifting by his hip. Cas, he realized, who’d probably been sitting there the whole time watching over him, and who was now scowling at the door, ramrod stiff with tension, his body very clearly between Dean’s and Alexio’s.

“Split, Cas,” Dean whispered, harsh and urgent, but it was too late. Alexio was already inside, holding a large toolbox and glaring right back at Cas, and Cas wasn’t going anywhere.

Anyway, it occurred to Dean as he shook the cobwebs from his brain that Alexio had no doubt seen Cas sitting there all this time through the cameras.

And whatever was in that toolbox might be in response to that.  _ No. In response to what  _ I  _ did. _

He swallowed down his fear and sat up. Swung his legs over the bed. Went to stand, but Cas planted a hand on his chest and pushed him back.

Alexio hadn’t shut the outer room door, but he also wasn’t making any move to enter the cage. Just kept on glaring at Cas. He broke eye contact long enough to put down the toolbox, and growled, “Back to your own cell, hunter. On the table.”

“No.” Dean shot to his feet, Cas’s protesting hand be damned. “No. Alexio, please.  _ Please _ .” Ignoring Cas’s soft, warning  _ “Dean,”  _ he strode to the front of the cage, fisted the bars and met Alexio’s eyes between them, his own eyes pleading. “I was the one who pissed you off, okay?  _ Me _ . He did nothing. You gotta punish someone? Punish  _ me _ .”

Cas called his name again, a lot less soft this time, at the same time Alexio said, eerily calm, “I’m not going to punish him, Dean. On the table with you too.”

Well, he had that coming, didn’t he. And that was fine, he was fine with that as long as . . . “You swear you won’t hurt him?”

Alexio nodded, solemn. “If you obey me. I swear.”

Best deal he’d seen all day. “Face up or face down?” 

“Up, please.”

Cas called his name again, increasingly urgent, but Dean ignored him, walked over to the table and climbed onto it without letting himself hesitate. Just looking at the damn thing made his skin crawl, woke all those angry wasps in his hand, but this was  _ his  _ mess. He was damn well gonna be the one to clean it up.

Alexio nodded his satisfaction with Dean, then turned to Cas, who was still perched tense and wary on Dean’s bed. “I’ve sworn to Dean I wouldn’t hurt you. That leaves me no recourse if you disobey me but to punish  _ him _ .” Cas blanched, swallowed, every last drop of his laser-focus on Alexio’s face. “Now will you make me repeat myself, hunter, or will you do as I’ve instructed?”

Cas gave Alexio another second or two of silent scorn, but Dean wasn’t worried--he’d  _ never  _ gamble with Dean’s wellbeing. Sure enough, Cas stood, stiff and almost regal in his bearing, and deliberately paced his way into his own cell, over to his own table, and laid face up, just like Dean. Turned his head to keep Dean in his sights, just like Dean had done with Cas.

But he kept one eye on Alexio too, as Alexio put down his toolbox, keyed himself into Dean’s cell, strode over to the table.

The urge to rabbit was sudden and overwhelming. Heart thrashing. Lungs heaving to catch up. The metallic taste of adrenaline and fear sharp on the back of his tongue. He was shaking, he realized, and not subtly either, but out there for the whole world to see. For Alexio to see. For  _ Cas  _ to see. 

_ Be brave be brave be brave you brought this on yourself you stupid fuck now lie here and take it like a fucking man. It’s just pain, you’ve survived it plenty before, so sack up, Winchester, and-- _

“Shhh, easy, Dean. Easy.” Dean nearly jumped outta his skin as Alexio’s fingertips brushed his calf. “I’m not going to hurt  _ you _ , either.”

He . . . wasn’t? “Uh. Not to sound ungrateful, but . . . why not?”

Alexio chuckled at that, and Dean dared to uncoil a little, take a breath, steady his nerves. “I wanted to, before. In fact, I almost did. If I hadn’t walked away . . .” Alexio shook his head, lips pursing into a frown. “What you do to me, Dean, I can’t . . . I’ve never kept someone quite like you. It saddens me to admit it, but I fear I don’t always handle you as well as I could. Should, even.”

Alexio took Dean’s busted hand in both his own, lifting oh-so-carefully by the forearm, but it woke the wasps and Dean forgot to breathe for a second, was afraid to the next second, until Alexio just placed his arm down gently on the table wing and cuffed it there, right over the brace. Dean would have to be seriously careful not to tug on that.

“No one said you could move, hunter.” Alexio’s voice was as calm and steady as his hands as he tucked the tongue of the cuff into the buckle. Dean peeked into Cas’s cage and saw him frozen halfway to sitting up--presumably a reaction to that little noise of distress Dean’d been unable to swallow when Alexio had touched his hand. 

“It’s all right, Cas. Just do what he says.”

Cas held Dean’s gaze for a long moment before lowering his shoulders back to the table, his jaw clenched so hard Dean could see the muscle bunching from fifteen feet away.

_ I know how you feel, buddy.  _ Dean’s own teeth were aching with the strain of making himself lie still and let Alexio strap him down, especially over the injured wrist. Alexio circled around the table, positioned Dean’s other hand, and it was too damn quiet in here, too easy to think about things he resolutely didn’t want to think about, so he blurted, “S’early for dinner, isn’t it?”

“I’m not feeding yet, Dean.”

The strap cinched tight around his left wrist, and he couldn’t help it, snapped, “Then what  _ are  _ you doing?”

“Just a safety precaution.” Alexio patted Dean’s forearm and walked away without explaining that, into Cas’s cage and over to Cas’s table. The panic built up fast, but before Dean could even really think about struggling in earnest, Alexio called back, “I’m not going to hurt him, Dean; just relax.” 

Hah, yeah. Right. Cos this was a regular fucking spa day.

Alexio strapped Cas’s wrists down, yanking the tongue through the buckle hard enough to make Cas grunt, but true to his word, he walked away when he was done. Right out of the room, in fact, though he returned before Dean could really puzzle over it.

And he was dragging a double-door-sized panel of steel bars in behind him.

Shit.  _ Shit. _

He was sealing up the fucking cages. Separating them again. Separating Dean from Cas.

_ Fuck _ .

“You don’t have to do that, Alexio.”

“Of course I do.” Alexio dragged the bar panel over to Dean’s cell door. “He’s a bad influence on you.”

“What I did this morning, that had nothing to do with him. That was all me, okay? All me.” Alexio said nothing as he keyed himself into Dean’s cell, carried the panel in and closed the door behind him.  _ Shit shit shit.  _ “Look, you think he’s gonna be any  _ less  _ of a bad influence through the bars?”

“I think he should’ve known better than to climb into your bed. And you into his,” Alexio said, and though he was clearly trying for calm, there was also no mistaking that hint of a snarl in his voice.

“He didn’t-- We didn’t  _ do  _ anything, Alexio! Look, I feel like hammered shit, man. My hand is killing me. And he was scared, okay? It was his first night here. It’s easier not to freak out when there’s someone close, makes everything hurt a little less. It’s nothing personal, I swear, I just--”

The panel clanked to the ground. “ _ I  _ am someone close, Dean. It is  _ my  _ job to sit by your bedside and ease your pain.  _ Mine _ !”

Oooookey. Jealous much? “And whose job is it to sit by  _ his  _ bedside, huh? Dude’s terrified. He’s not trying to get into my pants, Alexio, he just wants a friend.  _ I  _ want a friend. Isn’t that why you brought him for me?”

Alexio left the cage to fetch his toolbox, slamming the door behind him. “I brought him to ease your burdens,” he half-shouted from across the room. “You do not need to share a cage for him to serve that purpose.”

Alexio returned, slammed the door behind him on the way back in, too. Dean was out of ways to argue why this shouldn’t happen, and Alexio was getting seriously pissed, but if they got separated, escape would get  _ way  _ more complicated. Never mind how comforting it’d felt to touch Cas, to know he was  _ right there _ , that they could take turns keeping watch, maybe even protect each other. He didn’t want to lose that. He  _ couldn’t  _ lose that.

“Tell me what I gotta do, man. Tell me what it’ll take for you to leave the cage alone. Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”

“ _ Dean _ , n--” 

“Shut  _ up _ , Cas. Alexio and I are talking.”

Alexio propped the panel up against the partial wall beside the opening he’d cut it from a couple weeks past. “I’m sorry, Dean. You can’t bargain this away. Be grateful I’m even allowing him to live.”

Okay, yeah, Dean wasn’t arguing that one. Was too afraid Alexio might change his mind about the whole allowing-Cas-to-live thing after all. So Dean lay there nice and quiet while Alexio cracked open his toolbox and started reinstalling the panel that would keep Cas separated from Dean for good. 


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ack so sorry about the delay, folks! I went to Nashcon and kind of forgot to mention I'd be doing that (okay but [LOOK AT THESE PHOTO OPS OMG!](http://rachelhaimowitz.tumblr.com/post/157764322601/before-and-after-d-getting-choked-by-dean), and also I'm doing a [swag giveaway](http://rachelhaimowitz.tumblr.com/post/157798483936/swag-giveaway-i-have-two-swag-kits-from-nashcon) and a 1000 follower [editing/writing/publishing giveaway](http://rachelhaimowitz.tumblr.com/post/157832943176/1k-follower-giveaway) if you're interested?), so everything got put on hold. Anyway, here's a short chapter to tide you all over, and then hopefully we'll be back to regular update schedules by the weekend.

Despite all the banging and whirring of power tools and the smell of solder and the cold of the torture table and the discomfort of the straps, Dean found himself nodding off. It’d been a long night, and he’d slept less than an hour before Alexio had come back, and let’s face it--he was beat to Hell and back and Hell and back again. He needed sleep. Weeks of it. Preferably uninterrupted by sharp pointy objects.

He woke to what he was pretty sure was someone sticking his hand in a microwave and cranking the power up to 10. Moaned, tried to pull his hand to his chest and the power went straight up to 20, left him sweating and gasping and blinking his shock at the ceiling. Christ, his hand seemed to be getting worse, not better, and that was not a good sign.

He realized after a few more moments of sweating and gasping and blinking that Alexio was calling his name, had been for some time. In fact, that was probably what’d woken him. He turned his head toward the voice, sweated and gasped and blinked at Alexio for a while. His eyes felt gummy and his head was pounding. Fucking lingering concussion.

He squeezed his eyes shut, and when he opened them again, Alexio was hovering right above him, smiling gently. “Time to wake up now, Dean.”

“U--” Dean had to clear his throat. “Untie me?”

“Not quite yet, Dean.”

“But you said . . .” God, his head was fuzzy. This was why he hated naps. Not enough sleep? Fuzzy. Too much sleep? Fuzzy. And good luck finding the Goldilocks zone in between.

He rolled his head the other way, away from Alexio’s ugly mug and toward Cas’s cell, trying to piece together whatever it was he was missing here. Cas was gazing back at him intently, not from his torture table--thank god for that--but from one of the chairs at his little table against the back wall. So had Alexio really just strapped Cas down for safekeeping while he separated their cells? Because the missing panel of bars was back in place now, and--

And it wasn’t a wall. It was a  _ door _ . With hinges and a lock and it hadn’t been like that before and it wouldn’t be like that now unless Alexio intended to let them open it at least some of the time. So maybe not  _ all  _ hope was lost.

“Eyes on me, Dean.”

Voice still soft. Mild amusement. Dean rolled his head back toward Alexio, eyes squeezed preemptively shut against the pain of his brain sloshing around inside his skull when he moved like that. “ _ Urgh _ . Alexio, please. I don’t feel good, man. Untie me.”

When Dean pried his eyes back open, Alexio was grinning a too-pleased little grin. “I’ll make you feel wonderful, Dean.”

Well, that sounded ominously rapey, didn’t it.

“I’d take you to bed, but I don’t want anything interrupting us again--particularly not further injury--so perhaps it’s best to leave you strapped down for your own safety.”

“No, hey--” Dean started to sit, but Alexio planted a hand in his chest, pushed him back to the table.

“Do I need to strap you more thoroughly, Dean?”

“ _ No _ .” His feet were free, his hips, his chest and shoulders, and he really fucking needed to keep them that way. He knew where this was going, but there were way too many cobwebs in his head to think of how to get out of it. “No, look, I don’t feel good, Alexio, please, lemme up, lemme--”

“Shhh, easy, Dean.” Alexio’s hand on his chest again, not forceful this time but stroking in an attempt to soothe. Jesus, Dean was really kinda panicking here, wasn’t he? He was out of excuses, out of ways to stop this and Cas was right in the next cell, Cas was  _ watching _ \-- “Deep breaths, Dean. Just relax.”

Yeah, cos  _ regular fucking spa day _ . “No but look, can’t we . . . can’t we go upstairs or something? Do this in your bedroom, in your nice soft bed? Cas is watching, okay? He’s  _ watching _ .”

Alexio’s hand stroked circles on his chest, warm and firm. “ He doesn’t matter, Dean, and that’s a lesson you’d do well to learn. I was thinking about it this morning, after my anger had calmed. I _was_ going to punish you--I was going to punish both of you. But then I realized . . . Yesterday, you hit your hand on purpose.”

“What? No! Dude, are you crazy?” He was maybe kinda shouting a little in his  _ not panic not panic not panic _ , but it only helped sell the story, so he didn’t fight too hard to rein himself in. “Do you have any idea how bad that hurt?”

“I do. But you’re not afraid of pain, are you?” Alexio leaned in close, stared dead into his eyes, and read him like a fucking book. “Or rather, you’ve never let your fear rule you. No. What rules you is your  _ guilt _ .”

Correction: like a fucking  _ large print  _ book. Being narrated by Morgan Freeman.

Alexio straightened up, and Dean could breathe again but couldn’t quite tear his eyes away from Alexio’s smugly pleased face. “You blame yourself for his captivity.” True. “You blame yourself for his pain.” Also true. “And as long as he hurts, you believe you must also hurt.” 

_ Oh, you started out so strong, Alexio, but strike-out on that one. Just didn’t wanna lie back and let you rape me. _

Maybe Alexio failed to read that particular truth in Dean’s eyes, or maybe he just didn’t want to believe it. Either way, he plowed on like he was preaching the Dean Winchester gospel.

“But you’re wrong, Dean. You don’t deserve to suffer for the likes of him. In fact, you’re the only reason he’s still alive. I would’ve killed him when I caught him on my trail, but I spared him for  _ you _ , Dean. You  _ saved  _ his life. He owes you everything.”

_ If only you knew who really owed who what.  _ Dude pulled Dean’s ass outta Hell, and now it was Dean’s turn to pull them  _ both  _ out. Cas didn’t owe him  _ shit _ .

“It’s the job of the  _ erastes  _ to help teach his  _ eromenos  _ confidence, self-love. To show him the measure of himself, what he’s worthy of, what greatness he can achieve.”

Oh no. No no no no no. He was so done with this  _ erastes eromenos  _ shit. Unfortunately, he was also kind of a captive audience at the moment, and between the muzzy pounding in his head and a hand that was at this point literally made of barbed wire someone had stuck in a hyper-powered microwave, he wasn’t putting odds on charming his way out of it.

Alexio’s hand slid up Dean’s chest to cup his cheek. Dean torqued his head away, but he couldn’t move far enough and Alexio kept on him. “You’re a good man, Dean. You’re worth ten of him. I mean to convince you of that no matter how long it takes.”

“You don’t know me!” he blurted, because wow, man, fuck that shit. “You don’t know what I’ve done. I’ve lied, and I’ve stolen, and I’ve  _ killed _ , okay? I’ve--” Tortured. And  _ liked  _ it. “I’ve  _ hurt  _ people.” 

Alexio leaned over him, cupped his face with _ both  _ hands now and made him meet the fucker’s gaze, distressed but determined. “I don’t believe you. I’ve seen the care, the compassion, the concern you’ve shown him--a near stranger. A man who could take your burdens with but a word that you refuse to give because you care so deeply, are so profoundly kind and empathetic. You’re a  _ good man _ , Dean Isbell, and you deserve all the pleasures the world has to give.” Scumbag Steve slid his hands down Dean’s face, caressing his cheeks, his neck, cupping lightly over his chest. “And it is my sacred duty,  _ my  _ pleasure, to give them to you.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this wasn't at all the chapter I'd intended to write, but it's the one that came out, so, uh, enjoy? :-p Also, spoilery trigger warning in the end notes.

Alexio wasted no time with the groping. Dude’s hands were  _ freezing  _ as they touched down on Dean’s hips, and Dean may or may not have kind of jumped out of his skin at the shock of it. 

So of course Alexio misread that as eagerness or some shit: “You burn for me already,” the fucking creeper purred. “Be still; I’ll tend you, my sweet.”

Dean bucked his hips again, hoping to dislodge those stroking fingers, even if the cold did feel good against all the bruises there. “Yeah, uh. Could you maybe not?”

Icy hands slid from his hips to the tops of his thighs, the  _ insides  _ of his thighs, and Dean slammed his legs shut, hooked his ankles together. Alexio just clucked his tongue like some babushka’d grandmother and pried them back apart.

“Your guilt may yet compel you to speak so, but it cannot compel me to listen. I won’t hear it, Dean.” His gaze moved from Dean’s crotch to Dean’s eyes. “ _ You deserve good things _ .”

_ Hate to break it to you, chief, but  _ you  _ are not a good thing. _

Couldn’t say that, though. Couldn’t, couldn’t, not with Cas here now (Cas _ is a good thing _ , Dean’s brain very unhelpfully supplied), not with his head and his hand throbbing the way they were. This could happen gentle or it could happen rough but it  _ was  _ happening, he knew that down to his punctured bones, and he just didn’t have it in him to face the rough right now. Couldn’t bear to make Cas watch it. Easier to let his angel be disgusted by Dean’s inevitable arousal, appalled by Dean’s weakness, whatever--all easier than making the guy watch Dean’s blood splatter on the floor. Because Cas would fight then, would beg to take his place, would make Alexio mad enough to beat him senseless and then rape him bloody like he’d done to Dean, and that couldn’t,  _ couldn’t  _ happen.

So Dean said nothing.

Alexio took that as permission or maybe even straight-up encouragement, because next Dean knew, his knees were hooked over Alexio’s shoulders and his dick  _ and  _ balls were in Alexio’s mouth. 

“ _ Jesus _ !” Pretending at shock, Dean thunked his heels as hard as he could in what he hoped was the vicinity of Alexio’s kidneys. Fucker didn’t even grunt. “Next time warn a guy, will you?”

Not what he really wanted to say, but he knew damn well it was all he could have right now. 

Alexio chuckled around Dean’s soft cock, pressed his tongue up between Dean’s balls. Didn’t bother pulling off to reply, because why would he--he already had what he wanted.

Dean closed his eyes and fisted his good hand and made himself lie still. At least he probably wouldn’t get hard this time. Alexio’s mouth felt as gut-churningly skilled as ever ( _ good, it feels  _ really fucking good  _ why don’t you just admit it, you sad fuck _ ), but Dean felt  _ awful _ . Sweaty, achy, head pounding, that fucking wasp hive where his right hand used to be . . . And Cas, of course. He couldn’t quite work up the guts to turn his head, open his eyes, see if Cas was watching ( _ don’t get hard don’t get hard don’t get hard _ ), but he could  _ feel  _ that gaze on him, hot and angry and disappointed, and Dean really couldn’t figure how it could get any worse.

Which was clearly a failure of imagination on his part, because despite his stone-faced, dead-silent lack of response to Alexio’s efforts ( _ stop it don’t you dare get hard it doesn’t feel good at all ignore it ignore it _ ), Alexio just kept at it. Kept sucking and licking and tonguing and mouthing and humming, and eventually--inevitably, it seemed, after all--Dean responded.

Because  _ of course  _ he did. God even knew why it came as a surprise to him, why he’d ever thought he’d be strong enough not to. He was blushing, too, felt the heat halfway down his chest, and between that and Alexio’s triumphant little hum when Dean finally chubbed up, there was no way Cas didn’t know. How weak he was. How incredibly fucked in the head.

Well, whatever. Wasn’t the first time this’d happened--one of Alistair’s favorite pastimes had been to make Dean’s own body betray him--and it probably wouldn’t even be the last. 

_ You were  _ made  _ for this, Dean. My little slut. That’s it, Dean-- _ take  _ it. _

“That’s it, Dean, I knew down deep you craved it.” 

Dean startled, Alexio’s words far too close to Alistair’s playing in his head. “No,” he said, harsh and breathy, couldn’t help it. Couldn’t let that stand, not with Alistair’s hiss in his ear, soft and intimate, a sick mockery of a lover’s caress. He didn’t want this, and he wasn’t a slut. He  _ wasn’t _ . 

But Alexio ignored that too, and Dean couldn’t repeat it again. Told himself it was because he feared for Cas, but the truth was too close to the surface to ignore: he just didn’t have the strength to keep fighting today. Barely even twitched when a spit-wet fingertip trailed down his taint and started rubbing at his hole. If he didn’t say no again, he could just . . . pretend he wanted this. Keep his eyes closed and listen for Cas’s breathing ( _ heavy, even all the way from the other cage _ ) and maybe even pretend it was  _ him  _ instead--

Whoa, okay, where the fuck did  _ that  _ come from?

_ Eh, you know what? Fuck it.  _ Too damn weary to keep kidding himself, to keep burning half his energy burying Thoughts He’s Not Allowed To Have and People Who Are Too Good For Him and Things The Universe Would Never Let Him Keep Anyway Because When Had It Ever  _ Not  _ Punished Him For Being Happy For Even Five Fucking Seconds? So, yeah, he knew damn well where that thought had come from--from fucking September 18, 2008, that’s when, from the moment Cas had walked into that barn and  _ literal sparks flew _ . He’d been a hopeless fucking goner ever since, even if it had taken him four or five years to figure it out (and then bury it bury it bury it  _ deep _ ), and he was sick and fucking tired of pretending otherwise.

So, yeah. Eyes closed, tight. Focused on Cas’s breathing, too loud, too close, not nearly fucking close enough. On Cas’s gaze burning a hole straight through to his heart--not anger, not pity, not disappointment, just heat. Lust.  _ Desire _ . Surely he’d seen that in Cas’s eyes before. Surely he hadn’t imagined all those times they’d stared a little too long, stood a little too close . . .

No. He hadn’t. He read people for a fucking living and yeah sure maybe Cas wasn’t quite  _ people _ but he hadn’t misread him, he was sure of it.

So, yeah. Cas’s gaze, full of desire. Cas’s mouth working miracles on his cock. Cas’s slick finger easing him open with infinite patience and care. A second finger then, and Jesus Cas’s hands were big. Dean whined a little deep in his throat, and a hand massaged his belly, worked at the muscles there while Cas’s mouth sucked the tension out of Dean straight from his dick. 

Finally Dean relaxed, and those two fingers stopped hurting, felt . . . well, not  _ good _ , exactly, too weird for that, too many awful memories, but not  _ bad  _ either. And this was Cas, Dean was willing to be patient for Cas, willing to trust that the good would come.

Cas’s mouth slid off him, leaving his dick cold and straining, his ass clenching hard around those fingers.

“There’s my good boy. My precious human.”

_ *CRASH*  _

Dean’s eyes flew open to the phantom sound of glass shattering in his brain. 

_ Alexio. Not Cas. You don’t get to  _ have  _ Cas. All you get is  _ this _. _

Which was of course the moment Alexio went from two fingers to three, and Dean jerked and whimpered and kicked at Alexio’s back until he went back down to two with a murmured apology. 

But it was too late. The illusion was shattered, and no matter how hard he tried, Dean couldn’t get it back. Which left him with the stark reality of a fucking  _ rapist monster  _ sucking his dick like a popsicle and slowly working those two fingers until--god help him--they actually felt  _ good _ . 

When the third one came back, it didn’t even hurt a little bit. Alexio had found his prostate--another of Alistair’s favorite toys, when he was in the mood to wreck Dean’s mind instead of his body--and at the rate he was going, Dean was gonna come long before finger number four.

And Cas was still watching. Dean hadn’t yet dared so much as a glance to confirm it, but he could feel it, he  _ knew _ . And even worse, Dean had fucking  _ used Cas  _ in the worst possible way,  _ fantasized  _ about him being the one lying here with Dean, being intimate with Dean. And for what? To grit his way through a really fucking fantastic  _ blowjob _ ? 

Fucking disgusting, that’s what it was. What  _ he  _ was. 

So sue him if he cried a little when he came down Alexio’s throat, ass stuffed full of Alexio’s fingers and entire galaxies exploding and reforming along his skin. Probably the best fucking orgasm of his life, how fucking sad was that--for a good thirty seconds he even forgot about the agony in his hand. So sue him if he refused to open his eyes when it was over, no matter how much Alexio cajoled and praised and soothed. Maybe if he willed it hard enough, the table would just . . . open up and swallow him straight back down to Hell.

It was frankly a mercy when Alexio started touching him again, because after coming his fucking brains out, he was  _ way  _ too sensitive to bear it. Those three fingers pumping inside him bore not even the slightest resemblance to pleasure now, and when three became four he started squirming so bad Alexio pinned his knees to his chest with one massive arm wedged up behind them both. Dean was making all kinds of embarrassing noises again, he knew it, but at least this time they were pain instead of pleasure--at least now he was suffering through his rape like he was fucking supposed to.

Through it all he had some vague awareness that Alexio was still trying to soothe him, patronizing bullshit falling from his lips in a soft, endless stream that Dean couldn’t really make heads or tails of, didn’t care enough to try. It was hard to breathe folded in half like he was, and his ass hurt almost as much as his hand, and he just wanted it to be over, for  _ everything  _ to be over, he’d take it however it came, didn’t even fucking care anymore. Not like he could ever look Cas in the face again anyway, not with how he’d used him, not with the things he wanted from him, not with the things Cas had seen today.

The fingers disappeared from his ass, and then strong hands were wrapping around his thighs, spreading his legs wide and folding him right back in half again, and he barely had time to suck in a breath to brace himself (to  _ scream _ , who was he kidding?) before Alexio’s massive bull cock was poking him in the taint, one miss, two, and then the head caught and wedged its way inside with a ripping, burning pain that Dean clutched to his chest like a fucking lifeline.

So naturally, Alexio froze.

“Easy, Dean. It’s all right, you’re worked open, I promise you. Just relax. Just relax and it won’t hurt.”

Fuck that noise.

“ _ Please _ , Dean. I don’t want to hurt you.” Alexio’s voice was tight, strained. From the pleasure he was denying himself, or from worry, Dean didn’t know. Both, if he had to guess. “You can do it, Dean. Just let me in.”

_ Take it, slut. _

He couldn’t, and he didn’t. For a long moment, Alexio stayed right where he was--stock still, just the mushroom head of that cock inside Dean like a fucking fist--and Dean wondered if maybe Alexio would give up on penetration for today, cut his losses and jack off on Dean’s face or something. Actually be as considerate as he claimed to be.

But surprise surprise, the monster won out in the end. Dean didn’t relax, not really--maybe couldn’t, maybe wouldn’t, he honestly didn’t know--but Alexio praised him like he had and then forced himself in a little deeper anyway.

Dean grunted, clenched his teeth. Another inch or two, another grunt, this time closer to a shout. At least Alexio wasn’t just ramming home this time. Not that it seemed to hurt any less, but he didn’t think he was bleeding, and god knew his life was a big enough pile of steaming shit to count that as a win.

Win number two: Alexio gave one final shove, seated himself fully--nuts the size of tennis balls slapped up against Dean’s ass--and blew his load. Musta been crazy worked up from spending half an hour forcing an orgasm out of Dean. 

“Oh my . . .” Alexio panted, fingers still wrapped bruise-tight around Dean’s thighs. “I’m so sorry, Dean, I don’t know what happened, I . . .” Alexio ducked his head, hiding a serious blush, and slowly eased Dean’s legs back down to the table. 

“It’s cool, man,” Dean rasped. “I get it. It’s fine.” Because, really, his rapist’s premature ejaculation beat the hell out of excruciating pain any day, and the last thing he needed was Alexio feeling like he owed Dean extra attention next time or some shit. “Happens to the best of us, you know?”

Alexio blew out a breath, sagging and smiling like Dean had just commuted a death sentence or some shit. “You’re too kind, my precious human.” Alexio stepped around the side of the table, cupped his hands around Dean’s face and leaned in to press a kiss to Dean’s lips. Dean bore it, not like he had any choice, and anyway Alexio wasn’t trying to shove his tongue down Dean’s throat or anything so it could’ve been way worse. Besides, Dean was nearly too distracted by what felt like half a gallon of monster come oozing out his sloppy ass to care about minor violations like a chaste kiss.

And worse, he could still feel Cas’s heated gaze raking his body. On his face, where his lips met Alexio’s without resistance. Between his legs, where Alexio’s sticky come was trickling down his asscrack, crusting on the table. To his spent cock, still cool with Alexio’s spit and his own come.

The instant Alexio pulled back, Dean cleared his throat and said, “Hey uh, I could really use a shower, Alexio. Think you could untie me?”

“Of course, of course!” Alexio rushed to do just that, unstrapping his right wrist first, super gently but even the tiniest little jostles set Dean to whimpering and wishing he were dead for a second or three. Long enough, anyway, for him to realize only after the fact that his left wrist was free now too. Which meant he had no excuse at all not to sit up, get off the table. And yet . . .

Truth was, he couldn’t even muster the energy to  _ try _ . Knew it’d be pointless. Everything hurt and he was exhausted enough to drop into a fucking year-long coma and he just . . . couldn’t move.

Alexio’s hands slid between Dean’s shoulders and the table, and he leaned in close and murmured, “Let me help you, beloved.” 

Ugh.  _ Ugh _ .

On the other hand, shower.

Not like Dean had a choice in the matter anyway. Before he knew it he’d been sat up, right onto his throbbing ass and  _ holy shit that hurt _ , and he inched his way off the table and his feet hit the floor and then the rest of him nearly did too, knees buckling and only Alexio’s lightning-fast reflexes saving him from a painful fall.

And god damn it, there he was huddled in a monster rapist’s arms, and Cas was  _ still watching _ . He made the terrible mistake of kind of sort of catching Cas’s eyes from the corner of his own, and the angel’s face was  _ terrible _ , stone hard fury and disgust enough to fill Heaven top to bottom, and Dean looked away so fast he made himself dizzy and went crashing right back against Alexio’s chest again.

And there was Cas’s gaze still, so heavy on the back of his head he could barely keep his feet.  _ Nut up, Winchester.  _ He pushed away from Alexio’s chest, wormed out of his arms. “I’m good,” he said. “I’m good.”

But he was swaying on his feet, and Alexio wasn’t blind and  _ was  _ clingy as all fuck, so he took a hold of Dean by the hips and said, “No, you’re not,” and truer words etc. etc. and suddenly Dean was laughing so hard he made himself cry, and he ended up slumped right back into Alexio’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic rape in this chapter. Basically the entire chapter, actually.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still have some lovely comments to respond to but it was that or get the chapter up, so, replies tomorrow (er, later today, rather). In the meanwhile, happy Monday morning--here's 3,000 words of Pure Grade-A Pasture-Raised Dean Whump ;-p And also shower humiliation for Winnjennster because I promised <3

Alexio caught him, of course, and then swung him into a bridal carry without so much as a grunt of effort. “Hey--” Dean protested, but it wasn’t like Alexio was listening, and at least he was carrying Dean toward the shower.

But then he set Dean down right on his ass on the tile basin, back against the wall and legs splayed in front of him, and planted a hand on his shoulder so he couldn’t even pretend to try to stand. Which meant the soap and shampoo and washcloth and shower knobs were all out of reach. Which meant Alexio was gonna fucking--

Yup. Dude took his hand off Dean’s shoulder just long enough to shed his clothes and step into the little basin with him.

Nuh uh. No. Absolutely not.

“Dude. No.” Except, really, he was way too tired to climb to his feet on his own, which seriously undermined his protest. “One, there ain’t enough room in here for both of us, and B, I’m a grown man who can damn well wash himself.”

Alexio stared down at him, arms folded across his acre-wide chest and eyebrows raised, as if to say,  _ So go ahead, then. Get up. _

Shit. 

“You’re exhausted, Dean. And one-handed. You need help.” A pause, and then, “Unless you’d prefer not to wash today?”

Dean glared up at Alexio, but sighed tiredly, couldn’t help it. “Those are my options, huh?”

“Those are your options.”

Great. To allow one more violation, or to be stuck wallowing for hours in the feel and the stink of the last, much larger one?

No contest.

“Fine. But  _ I  _ wash the dangly bits, got it?”

Alexio said nothing, but his lips ticked up a smidge at the corners, and his arms fell loose to his sides, so Dean took that as a yes. He sat still and quiet as Alexio picked carefully at the strips of tape holding his various bandages in place--his shoulder was healing nicely, probably didn’t need to be covered anymore--and discarded them in a little heap on the other side of the cage bars. “We’ll keep the brace on for now”--plastic and velcro, not likely to get waterlogged, and god knew he needed its support--“but I’ll need to change the bandages after your shower.”

Probably should’ve changed them yesterday, to be perfectly honest. He understood that Alexio didn’t want to jar potentially broken bones, but it was somehow occurring to him only now--despite a literal lifetime of experience with festering wounds--that maybe he felt so awful and his hand hurt so goddamn fucking much because it’d gotten infected.

Oh, joy. Like he didn’t have enough problems down here already?

And Cas, Jesus Christ, Cas was still fucking scowling at him. Dean didn’t doubt for one second, if it were Cas in his shoes, that the angel-- _ ex-angel, Dean,  _ ex--would’ve kicked Alexio right the fuck out of the shower. That he would’ve gritted his way through it on his own, or just gone to sleep reeking of monster splooge if he somehow couldn’t muster the strength to turn a fucking spigot. Cas might be human now, but he was still so much  _ better  _ than Dean, stronger and braver and tougher, and here Dean was slumped on the floor of a shower stall letting his torturer-rapist give him a goddamn sponge bath and no wonder Cas was so fucking disgusted with him.

He was pretty fucking disgusted with himself, to be frank. Like, take-a-scalding-hot-shower-to-wash-away-your-shame kind of disgusted. Good thing he was already in the stall, huh?

The water came on, a chilly blast that Alexio immediately diverted away from Dean with one massive hand. He fiddled with the knobs until steam started to rise from the spray, then pulled his hand back just enough to let a trickle spill down onto Dean’s legs. “Is the temperature right?” he asked.

It was actually a little too hot, but that was good, that was fine, lukewarm water wasn’t gonna wash away  _ his  _ mess and anyway he deserved the discomfort for just sitting here like some helpless child. “S’fine,” he said. Closed his eyes as Alexio pulled his hand back and the spray hit him full force. Let his head loll against the wall because if he was gonna hate himself for being some weakling quitter he might as well at least get to enjoy the laziness he was punishing himself for. 

Besides, this way he could pretend it wasn’t Alexio above him, Alexio’s hands rubbing soap into his battered skin with the utmost gentle care. Just Sam, cleaning him up after a hunt gone wrong, checking him for injuries and washing off the monster goo so he could rest and recover.

It wasn’t so bad like that, even if he couldn’t quite fall into the lie all the way. He never forgot whose hands were on him; Alexio wouldn’t  _ let  _ him forget, keeping up a constant stream of inane chatter and clucking over injuries he’d inflicted with his own two hands. Hands that, on more than one occasion, became a little too  _ un-brotherly  _ not to shatter Dean’s illusion even further--stroking slowly over his closed lips, lingering a little too long over a nipple, caressing the very top of a thigh. 

Dean got his shit together just enough at that touch to open his eyes and snatch the washcloth out of Alexio’s hand. “I said  _ I’d  _ do the dangly bits,” he growled--or tried to, anyway, though it mostly came out a rasp. 

Alexio grinned placatingly, or maybe patronizingly, and held both hands up in surrender as Dean ran the soapy cloth over his pelvis, his junk, the crease of his thighs, his taint, his asscheeks--shifting his weight first onto one and then the other for access and somehow managing not to face-plant along the way--and then ever-so-carefully down his crack. Pain flared hot and sharp, and heat flared in his cheeks to match beneath the watchful gazes of both Alexio and Cas, but he kept at it until he felt . . . well,  _ clean  _ was the wrong word, probably would be for a long time, but at least not  _ sticky  _ anymore.

He dropped the washcloth and hung his head, panting and too hot and so,  _ so  _ tired. So fucking sick of hurting. His eyes drooped closed, and next he knew Alexio’s hands were on his shoulders, righting him--he’d slumped sideways, almost fallen. 

Sleep, god, he needed sleep.

“I think we’d best finish up,” Alexio said, hands hovering until Dean established that he wouldn’t fall sideways again. Alexio picked up the washcloth, wrung it out, scrubbed it quickly over Dean’s legs, feet, then tipped Dean forward to lean against Alexio’s chest while Alexio scrubbed his back. “Eyes closed now,” Alexio murmured, propping him carefully against the wall again and then shampooing his hair into a quick lather. The suds tickled as Alexio washed them away, like phantom fingertips caressing his skin, and he shuddered and slapped at them and just . . . tried not to think about unwanted caresses, tried not to think about anything at all.

He must’ve succeeded for a minute, because he seemed to lose some time again, opening his eyes to a towel roughing over his hair, a second one wiping down his legs and then draping over his shoulders. Then Alexio brought him out of the shower the same way he’d brought him into it--buck naked, in a bridal carry, too weak to protest.

He’d expected to feel better after his shower, but he didn’t. Like, not at all. He was cold and in absolutely stupid quantities of pain, still felt hands where they shouldn’t be, still felt sweaty and gross. Made an embarrassingly pathetic little noise of hurt when Alexio lowered him to his bed; made an equally embarrassing noise of relief when Alexio pulled the blankets, thick and warm, up to his chin. Didn’t even bother trying to evade the touch as Alexio smoothed a hand across his forehead, over his damp hair. To be brutally honest, he craved the comfort, never mind how fucked in the head it made him to be seeking it from the monster who’d hurt him in the first place. But he was just too exhausted to sort through the conflicting emotions, to do anything but lie there, eyes closed, and let Alexio do what he would. Anyway, what was one more reason to hate himself, one more reason for Cas to be disappointed?

It was nothing--that’s what. Nothing at all in the context of everything else he’d let happen.

“You can rest in a moment, beloved, but first I need to change the bandages on your hand.”

No. No no no no taking the brace off he couldn’t handle that kind of pain right now he just needed like four hours of sleep to get his shit together before he could face that--

“Shhh, easy, Dean, easy.” Christ, had he said some of that  _ out loud _ ? Or worse, all of it? He couldn’t remember. Couldn’t feel the scrape of the words in his throat, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t said them. “I’ll be gentle, I promise. But the bandages are wet now; they must come off.”

“Be fine,” he murmured. He’d lived with wet bandages before, plenty of times. “Jus’a few hours firs, please . . .”

Alexio scowled down at him, all worry, no anger. His expression slowly softened, and he reached out a hand to stroke Dean’s brow again.

He was cracking. Time for the big guns. Dean blinked up at him, mustered the energy to snake a hand up to the hem of the blankets and draw them back in invitation. “Just . . . stay? Please?”

Alexio did not need to be asked twice. His whole demeanor softened so drastically and suddenly that it was like someone had dumped a box of puppies on him; he sighed and smiled the smile of parents everywhere, the I-know-this-is-a-bad-idea-but-I-can’t-say-no-to-that-face one that Dean had felt on his own lips too often when Sammy was little, and tucked himself right into bed beside Dean. He was careful climbing in, lying down on his side to leave room for them both, and letting Dean adjust before hooking his leg over both of Dean’s and sliding an arm over Dean’s waist. Dean hissed a little at the arm--between the bruises on his hips and the still-healing cracked ribs, the pressure  _ sucked _ \--and much to his surprise, Alexio drew it back immediately with a whispered apology. Curled his arm in between their bodies instead and rested the hand on Dean’s shoulder. Yeah, Dean could live with that. Could live with all this if it meant he could sleep for even a little while before having to face the brace coming off.

He was out in seconds. 

* * *

Dean woke to muffled sounds of pain from Cas’s cell. Then not-so-muffled ones, followed by a sharp admonishment from Alexio: “Wake him at your peril, hunter.”

So Dean slitted his eyes open just far enough to make sure Alexio was only feeding, then closed them again. Cas was suffering enough; he wouldn’t be the cause of more.

Despite the agony in his hand, he was out again in seconds. And then right back to the surface, eyes wide and heart thrashing, at the sound of Alexio moaning his pleasure--

_ Just eating.  _ He wasn’t . . .  _ hurting  _ Cas. Just enjoying his meal.

When Alexio finished, he unstrapped Cas’s right hand, then unlocked the door between their cages and approached Dean’s bed. Dean slammed his eyes shut, pretending at sleep as hard as he could because he knew damn well that after dinner came dessert and never mind that Alexio had already used him once today, he was no doubt back for more and maybe, just  _ maybe  _ if Dean could make himself look even half as pathetic as he felt, Alexio would leave him be.

“Time to wake up, Dean,” Alexio murmured, hand curling over his shoulder and shaking gently.

“Nnnnngh.” As it turned out, that was legit all Dean could manage to coax from his mouth right now. He just wanted to go back to sleep, stop being conscious of all this frankly  _ epic  _ suckitude. 

Alexio shook his shoulder again, a little harder this time. “Come on, Dean. I have to change the bandages on your hand, and I’d prefer it if you were aware enough not to try to attack me in the process. I don’t want you exacerbating your injuries while the brace is off.”

“ _ Nnnnngh _ ,” Dean said again, a little harder this time. Kept his eyes stubbornly closed and the covers stubbornly tucked under his chin.

Alexio’s hand left his shoulder. Good, now he could just slee--

Two massive arms wedged between him and the mattress, and suddenly he was tucked against Alexio’s chest like a sleepy child, still clinging one-handed to the blanket, his bad hand flopping down with a surge of pain so intense it obliterated the rest of the world for a good few seconds. 

Next he knew he was being lowered onto the torture table, the ice cold metal a shock against his bare back.

“Shhh, easy, easy. It’s all right, Dean, I just need to be able to immobilize your hand while I work.”

Alexio sat the table up, positioned the wings like armrests, secured straps around Dean’s chest and hips and ankles and thighs, and the whole thing was so much like when he’d “punished” Dean that he couldn’t help struggling, thrashing with what little strength remained to him,  _ no  _ and  _ lemme go  _ and  _ Alexio man please  _ spilling frantic from his lips. 

“Shhh.” Alexio’s hand smoothed over Dean’s brow, rested there to still his head. Why was he on this table again, strapped down like this? What had he done wrong? “It’s all right, Dean, I’m not going to hurt you. I just need to change your bandages, remember?”

. . . No, he did not remember, and he thought that maybe that scared him almost as much as being strapped to this fucking table like this. He didn’t . . . he didn’t feel so good, something was wrong with his head. With his hand. He needed to fucking lie down before he puked up everything he’d even  _ thought  _ about eating for the last fucking year--

“All right. We can do it that way. Just close your eyes, Dean. Sleep if you can.” 

The table slowly reclined to flat, and Dean closed his eyes, breathed deep, tried to settle himself as Alexio strapped his good arm to its wing, tried to breathe through the pain as Alexio positioned the bad one.

“I’m going to take off the brace now, Dean. It’s very important that you hold absolutely still, do you understand?”

Why was he taking off the brace? Was he gonna drill more holes through Dean’s hand? “Please, don’t do this again,  _ please _ . I’m sick, man, something’s wrong, don’t--”

Hand on his brow again, soft shushing near his right ear. “I’m not going to hurt you, Dean.” Infinite patience, Dean knew that tone, usually meant someone was dying. Probably him, the way he felt. “You’re feverish. I should’ve noticed before, but . . .” Nothing for a moment but the unmistakable sound of silent self-recrimination. “I think it’s your hand. Now hold still for me, Dean. I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

Velcro ripping. Pressure easing on his forearm, wrist, fingers, agony rushing in its place,  _ so much pain god it hurts it hurts help me please make it stop  _ but he held still, didn’t even breathe lest he jar his fingers. New pressure halfway up his forearm, across the palm of his hand, long strips of tape immobilizing him against the table. Alexio didn’t make him uncurl his fingers, thank god, but mixed blessing, mixed blessing because if he so much as twitched them he’d scream.

_ Eyes closed. Breathe. You can do it. Just breathe.  _

Cool hard metal and light pressure, tiny scissors working between the bandaids and his skin, gentle fingers picking away the remnants, airing his wounds to the light. Fingers the worst,  _ why can’t you just pass out already you stupid fuck _ , didn’t feel broken but  _ fuck  _ they jarred the bones in the hand, and all four of those had snapped against his cage bars, he’d bet Baby on it.

No, he’d been wrong,  _ hand  _ was the worst, little round bandaids right over the nexus of the agony, of  _ course  _ the bones had broken where they’d been weakened by puncture holes and  _ ohholyfuck  _ the one beneath his ring finger  _ what the actual hell  _ he hadn’t known pain like that since Alistair, since  _ actual Hell _ . . .

“Hmm.” A drawn-out, disapproving sound. Alexio touched a fingertip to a swollen lump above the break and Dean’s whole body lurched against the straps  _ stop don’ttouchthat _ \--

“I’m sorry, Dean. The rest of the punctures have healed over nicely, but this one’s infected--quite seriously by the look of it. I think the bone beneath it is broken, which means the infection’s likely settled in the marrow cavity. If it isn’t lanced and cleaned, you’ll lose your hand.”

_ Your dominant hand you can’t lose that nut up Winchester stop being such a fucking wuss and let him do what needs doing. _

Dean swallowed. Nodded, maybe, wasn’t sure, didn’t even fucking matter, Alexio was gonna do what he was gonna do no matter what Dean said.

Hand on his forehead again, stroking, cool, soothing. “Rest, Dean. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Out cold. Woken by the sound of the cage door opening, startled and disoriented on the torture table and it took him a second but he remembered this time. Fucking infected hand. 

Not his first rodeo. He knew what that meant. Scalpel, saline, forceps, _debridement_.  _ Motherfucker _ . Gonna  _ suck _ . 

Or maybe . . . maybe Alexio would fuck it up. Dean was weak; maybe it would kill him. There was undeniable peace in that thought. Shit sucked here. He was past ready for it to end. So fucking tired. So very very very very very  _ very  _ fucking tired.

Except . . . Cas. 

No reason for Alexio to keep him if Dean died. Couldn’t forgive that. Couldn’t let it happen.

_ Shit _ . Guess he’d better stick around, after all. Guess he’d better fight it.

_ Chin up. You can sleep when you’re dead, son. But that ain’t gonna be today. _


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my pretties! It's looking like we're gonna be on a one-a-week update schedule until the end (I'm _trying ___for two a week but life has been crazy lately). Also, I have some lovely comments I've yet to reply to, but I really wanted to get this chapter up tonight so I'll respond to everyone tomorrow--I may be slow at that, but please know how INCREDIBLY much it means to me to hear from you all. *mwah!*

“Here, take these.”

Alexio pressed two pills to Dean’s lips, then lifted his head with one hand and held a cup of water for him with the other. Dean didn’t even question it--if Alexio wanted him to suffer and/or die, he’d just leave him to the infection, not poison him, so these were either painkillers or antibiotics or both.

“Tylenol with codeine,” Alexio told him even though he hadn’t asked. “Accidentally drove a nail through my hand on a job a couple years ago. I heal quickly on my own, of course, but I wasn’t about to pass up a legal opportunity to obtain stronger drugs. I’m afraid these are the last two, though; Jimmy needed them, at the end.” 

How could a monster sound so fucking  _ sad _ ? Didn’t matter. Jimmy mattered, though, even if Dean had been too late to save him. The pills mattered.  _ Cas  _ mattered.

Alexio laid an icy-cold wash cloth across Dean’s forehead, and Dean gasped at the shock of it, flinched away, but he was all strapped down and stuck with it, wasn’t he. “Shhh, easy,” Alexio murmured as the icepick stab of cold began to fade into a more reasonable chill, then moved right on into soothing. Dean closed his eyes and focused on breathing, focused on that small relief as the cold numbed the outer edges of the pain in his head.

Alexio’s cool fingers skimmed Dean’s sweaty hair, his cheek, his shoulder, then left him. Dean hurt too bad to try to pretend he didn’t miss a kind touch,  _ any  _ kind touch, even if it belonged to MonsterCreep VonDoucheFace. Especially since the moment those hands stopped being busy making nice, they were gonna get busy making pure Hell.

A ripping sound, and then, true to prediction, Alexio started wrapping even more tape around Dean’s forearm and hand--to keep him super duper extra still, he supposed, which, yay because jarring broken bones sucked, but also boo because Alexio clearly thought there’d be enough reason to immobilize Dean that thoroughly. Not to mention that every little jiggle and pull set off an entire fucking New Year’s Eve worth of fireworks from his fingertips all the way up to his shoulder.

But this was nothing, he knew that. It was only gonna get worse.

“I’m going to ice your hand now, all right? I’m afraid I don’t have anything else to numb you with.”

Great. Just fucking peachy.

He almost asked for whiskey--surely Alexio would let him have it just this once--but he knew damn well he’d puke it back up before it had time to work. 

Then Alexio settled a bag of ice on Dean’s palm and he nearly retched anyway. Lurched against his straps, struggling for god even knew what, cold compress slipping off his head and plopping onto the table beside him. 

Alexio’s hands on his shoulders then, face hovering just inches from his own, bullshit words of comfort spilling from his lips,  _ hush  _ and  _ easy  _ and  _ it’ll calm in a moment Dean, just breathe, that’s it, just breathe . . . _

Dean couldn’t have fucking breathed right now if his life depended on it.

But Alexio was right, Dean knew he was--the pain and the shock slowly faded as the cold seeped in and started to numb the flesh beneath. It wasn’t touching the bone-deep agony of the breaks, but the searing heat of the infection, the sickly throbbing and the unbearable pressure of fluid buildup in a too-small space, that all began to ease.

Dean sucked in a shuddery breath, felt the tension leave his exhausted muscles as he blew that breath out. Alexio replaced the compress on his forehead and kissed his cheek, murmuring, “That’s it, that’s good, Dean, you’re doing great,” so loving and concerned and yet steadfast in his torturous course of action that it could’ve been John standing over him, John patching a brutal wound, heart breaking for Dean even as he did what needed to be done.

If Dean kept his eyes closed tight enough, if Alexio kept quiet enough, he could almost,  _ almost  _ fool himself into believing it was dad taking care of him.

He drifted for a bit while the ice worked its magic, floating through that strange dissociative space between asleep and awake, through the occasional pop and flare of sensory awareness--creeping cold in his hand so intense it hurt, the clink of metal against metal, a brush of fingers on his skin, the compress leaving his head and coming back cooler than it’d been before. More clinking. More gentle touches. Then, “Did you feel that?”

“Feelwhat?” Dean breathed, eyes still closed.

“I took the ice off your hand.”

Dean shook his head, clenched his eyes and jaw against the wave of vertigo that induced.

“Good. Deep breath, now. Be brave; it’ll be over soon.”

One last delicate clink of metal, and then a line of molten fire speared through his palm, white phosphorus incinerating everything it touched and Dean lurched, screamed, practically convulsed against the straps to get away make it stop  _ get away _ \--

The pain dimmed fractionally, white-hot to blue, as wet warmth spilled over his hand. Burning still so fierce he was shocked he couldn’t smell charred meat, but the pressure had eased, the sickly throbbing dialed back from a nine to an eight or seven. Exhaustion overtook pain and Dean slumped back to the table, sweating and shivering, panting hard and noisy but regrouping, gathering the last tattered scraps of his strength.

“Halfway done,” Alexio said. “I’ve opened up the skin above the infection, and it’s draining well--you should feel some relief already.”

Dean didn’t have the strength to respond, didn’t think Alexio was expecting him to anyway, so he just kept his eyes closed, kept breathing.

“But . . .” Hesitation, regret. Dean knew what was coming next. He’d gone through it awake more than once before, though usually by this stage he was eight or nine sheets to the wind on blood loss and Jim Beam. “I need to spread the wound apart to clean out all pockets of infection and dead tissue. Are you ready?”

What a  _ ridiculous  _ fucking question. 

Didn’t seem like Alexio was waiting for an answer in any case. Another whisper-scrape of metal on metal--a pair of forceps or maybe even a retractor being lifted off the instrument tray, Dean bet, not that he was willing to open his eyes to confirm it--and then the white phosphorus was back, big heaping globs of it dumped straight into his open wound, burning down through the bone and out the other fucking side and he was screaming, screaming, he’d made Alistair mad again and now he was back on the rack and the demon was playing doctor with his razor on Dean’s hand, or maybe just roasting it in Hellfire, god knew he was burning up right now from head to toe anyway, pain so fresh and bright and all-consuming he couldn’t even tell where it was coming from anymore, couldn’t even stop screaming long enough to beg. Not that it would matter, it  _ never  _ mattered with  _ Him _ , no way to make it end until Alistair had finished teaching his lesson or having his fun.

He thought maybe it stopped after a while, but that was the thing about Hellfire, wasn’t it--it burned you down deep, hurt you so bad that the pain kept at you long after the fire was out, right up until it killed you or Alistair saw fit to make you new again. All Dean knew was that he’d been taken off the rack and tucked into Alistair’s bed, sweaty and aching and he couldn’t move his hand or his wrist and the whole mess hurt so bad he figured Alistair had severed the tendons with his razor but he couldn’t look at where it’d been propped on a pillow, couldn’t make himself see it if he didn’t have to. Alistair wouldn’t care--he’d fuck Dean, working hands or no, and then maybe if Dean was lucky, was good enough, performed well enough, begged sincerely enough, Alistair would forgive him and he wouldn’t go back on the rack in the morning.

“You.” Alistair, from somewhere across the room, barking orders to some underling. Dean didn’t open his eyes--couldn’t have even if he’d really really wanted to; maybe Alistair had sewn them shut again. “I’ll be gone three hours, maybe four. You will tend him until I return.”

“Of course.”

Underling’s voice sounded so familiar, gravel-rough and as deep as the ninth circle, but Dean couldn’t place it just now. Fuck-all knew why it made him feel so safe, seeing as how every last soul in this pit was slavering for a piece of him.

Alistair must’ve been in one of his rare affectionate moods, because he left the underling to sit on the bed by Dean’s hip, leaned in to stroke a hand across Dean’s hair, then followed it with a kiss. “I’ll be back soon. The worst is done now--you’re safe. Just rest.”

_ Ohthankgod he’s forgiven me _ . Well, not  _ God _ , probably, but . . . whoever or whatever you thanked down here for mercy. 

_ Alistair. You thank Alistair. _

“Tha’you.” It was all Dean could manage with his ravaged voice and ravaged strength, but hopefully it would do. Alistair hadn’t healed him yet, probably wasn’t going to anytime soon, but if Dean showed proper gratitude, he wouldn’t hurt him anymore. Not today, anyway.

Another kiss to his forehead--Alistair was feeling sentimental tonight. “Don’t thank me, just rest.”

Dean had no intention of disobeying Alistair again today, especially not an order that simple and easy. He closed his eyes. Tried to mute the pain enough to let sleep take him.

Door opening. Door closing. Alistair off to do whatever important Hell business needed doing. That was fine, that was good--he’d forgiven Dean, and Dean felt safe for now.

Until the bed dipped again beneath the weight of a different body, and Dean tensed, drew in tight, rasped, “Don’t touch me. I’m  _ His _ .” The pain he’d faced today was  _ nothing  _ compared to what Alistair would do to anyone who dared use his property without permission; this demon should know that, but--

“It’s all right, Dean.” The underling. Voice cracking. Sad, so fucking  _ sad _ . Why was everyone so sad today? “He told me to tend you, remember?”

Huh, yeah, true. He startled at the feel of a cold compress being laid across his forehead, but then settled right back down. Felt good. Cool hand cupping his cheek felt even better. Other hand, broad and strong, rubbing at the center of his chest. Alistair wouldn’t like this, but he couldn’t muster up the will to push the guy away.

“Oh, Dean . . . I’m so sorry.”

What for? No one was sorry for other people in Hell.

The hand on his cheek stroked gently, and then the underling sniffled, blew out a wavery breath, like he was . . .  _ crying _ ? Over  _ Dean _ ? 

Well that sorted it, he had to see this guy, see if he knew him or what. Took some effort to pry his eyes open, but it turned out Alistair hadn’t sewn them closed after all, and then he was blinking against the dim light and--

“ _ Cas _ ?”

Cas pressed his quivering lips together, blinked a few too many times. “I’m here, Dean. I’m right here. You’re going to be fine.”

“No, Cas, you can’t be here, you gotta--” He tried to sit up, barely made it an inch off the mattress before collapsing back with a cry. Grabbed Cas’s arm with his good hand, instead, clutched at him while shoving him away. “Alistair’s coming back, he’s stronger than you, you gotta go, you gotta  _ go now _ .”

“This isn’t Hell, Dean, this isn’t--” Cas’s hand left Dean’s face, and Dean missed it immediately, the warmth and the comfort and the care, but then Cas grasped Dean’s good hand in both his own and pressed it to his chest, right over his heart. “Feel this? This is a human body. We’re on Earth. I rescued you, Dean, I raised you from perdition five years ago. We’re in a prison. You’re sick. You’re having . . . I believe you call them flashbacks.”

Dean dug his fingertips into warm, solid muscle, felt that heartbeat steady and soothing beneath his palm.  _ Cas _ . Cas in a human vessel--

_ Jimmy. His name was Jimmy. But he’s dead and that’s Cas’s body now. Because Cas is  _ human _ \-- _

The room  _ shifted  _ with dizzying speed, fire and shadow morphing into cage bars and dimmed overhead lights, the stench of sulphur morphing into the smell of antiseptic and blood, the screams of the damned morphing into his and Cas’s too-loud breathing--everything slotting into place with a nearly audible  _ click _ . 

Alexio. Basement. Broken hand. Jesus fuck his  _ hand  _ . . . 

And Cas. Cas sitting on the bed beside him, still cradling Dean’s good hand to his chest like some precious, fragile treasure, and Dean was . . . well, not  _ safe _ , really, but topside at least, and Alexio was  _ miles  _ better than Alistair and he was gone for a few hours and Dean was alone here, at least for a little while, with the man he--

Yeah, fuck it. The man he  _ loved _ .

So despite the exhaustion, despite the fear, despite the crippling pain, Dean quirked his lips into a half-smile and blinked up into Cas’s too-blue eyes, shimmering with unshed tears, and said, “Come to rescue me from Hell again, huh?”

Cas huffed out a relieved little laugh. “You know I’d follow you anywhere, Dean.”

Dean swallowed, felt the smile slide right off his face. He  _ did  _ know that, but this was . . . serious. Different, somehow. He found it hard to hold Cas’s gaze. “Yeah, I uh. I know. And, uh . . .” He paused, licked cracked lips. Felt his own eyes watering, even though he couldn’t figure out why. “Ditto, you know?” 

Cas leaned in close enough that Dean had trouble looking into both his eyes at the same time. Cupped Dean’s face in one hand again. The other hand was still holding Dean’s to his chest, right above his heart, and there was no mistaking how rabbit-fast that heartbeat had gotten. “When he . . .” Cas swallowed, pressed his lips together again, blinked a few more times. “You’d been through so much already, and you were clearly so ill, and the way you screamed, I . . .”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, Cas.” He wished he could move his other hand without shorting out, wished he could touch Cas the way Cas was touching him. Calm him, soothe him. But Cas had a deathgrip on his one good hand, and Dean didn’t have the heart--or the will--to pry it free. “I’m not dead, yeah? I’m okay, I’m gonna be okay. We’re  _ both  _ gonna be okay.” He didn’t know if he believed that, but gazing into Cas’s eyes from this close, seeing the faith and the devotion and the fear and the--yes, the  _ love _ there, he kinda thought he could believe  _ anything _ .

And because it wasn’t possible to put  _ too  _ fine a point on that, and because fuck it, that’s why, and he was probably gonna die down here anyway and he was sick and fucking tired of dying with regrets, Dean mustered up the strength to lift his head off his pillow, closed the scant distance between then, and kissed Cas.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooooh my goooooood u guise I'm SO SORRY about the huge delay on this chapter! Long story short, real life got absolutely friggin insane the last few weeks and I have just had zero free seconds to write. On the plus side, the craziness is passing, and I have a nice long chapter for you to make up for the wait and I'm already working on the next one.
> 
> As always lately, I have a ton of amazing lovely comments to answer (your kind words keep the muse fed AAH THANK YOU), but I've put them off to get the chapter up. So I'll reply to everyone hopefully tomorrow, and in the meanwhile please know that I'm reading them all and you are making me smile SO MUCH every time you take the time to leave one <3

Dean’s brain was currently slow-cooking at 103 degrees, maybe 104, but even sick and sluggish as he was, there was no mistaking the fact that Cas  _ didn’t kiss him back. _

. . . It wasn’t too late for him to die now, was it?

He shrank away just as Cas’s hands curled way too gently around his shoulders and eased him back to the bed.

“Dean . . .” Cas whispered--actually  _ whispered _ \--and Dean thought that teeny-tiny little sound coming out of his once-the-size-of-the-Chrysler-Building-ex-angel was maybe the only thing in the entire world that could’ve convinced him to face Cas right now, what with how hot his cheeks were burning and how nauseous as he felt, and none of it having a single damn thing to do with his fever.

Staring down the hound that’d dragged him bloody and screaming to Hell had been easier than lifting his eyes up to Cas’s face, and for a second his gaze got stuck on Cas’s mouth, on those lips he’d just kissed that  _ hadn’t kissed him back  _ and were currently puckered into a terrible frown. And it was only the thought of how horrified Cas was with him right now, how surprised, how  _ disgusted _ , that got his eyes unstuck and let him take in the rest of Cas’s expression.

Which . . . what the fuck even was that? Those furrowed brows, those pinched eyes, and that mouth . . . that mouth wasn’t just frowning, it was  _ quivering _ . 

Oh god, he’d  _ broken  _ his best friend. 

“I’m sor--”

“Dean.” Cas’s hands tightened on Dean’s shoulders:  _ Shut up, Dean. I don’t want to hear it. _

Yeah, well, he had to fucking say it anyway, didn’t he? Had to try to fix this somehow. He grabbed Cas’s arm with his good hand, met his eyes like a fucking man. “No listen Cas please, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking, I  _ swear _ , man, it’s . . . the fever’s messing with my head, okay? I would  _ never _ \-- You’re my best friend and I--”

“ _ Dean. _ ” Cas’s hand smooshed up hard and heavy against Dean’s mouth, cutting off the rest of his apology. Fat lotta good it would’ve done him anyway; he barely even had any idea what he’d been saying. Then Cas leaned in super close, like maybe  _ he  _ was the one about to start kissing now, except his hand was still pressed to Dean’s lips. Instead he whispered near Dean’s ear, “The  _ cameras _ , Dean.”

Oh. Right. Alexio.  _ Shit _ . Had he just screwed up way more than his and Cas’s friendship? What if Alexio had seen them? He’d  _ kill  _ Cas. Shit shit shit shit  _ shit _ . Maybe he could beg for Cas’s life. Throw himself at Alexio’s feet. Suck his dick. Ride him like a goddamn cowboy. Whatever it’d take, he’d do it. 

Cas pulled back just far enough to meet Dean’s eyes, held his gaze for a long, assessing beat. But Dean understood now; he could’ve gotten Cas killed with his carelessness and he wouldn’t risk it again, wouldn’t say or do anything else so fucking stupid. Cas seemed to understand that, because he pulled his hand back.

Dean licked his lips, then said as quietly as he could manage, “He would’ve been here by now, I think? If he’d seen--”  _ That. Me kissing you like a fucking lovesick moron. He would’ve charged in here and pulled you off of me and beaten you to fucking death all because I was too fucking stupid and greedy and selfish to not kiss you. _

Heat flooded his cheeks all over again, and his belly churned hard enough to compete with his hand for attention, and so what if he was a coward after all--he couldn’t help it, he looked away. Closed his eyes.

“Dean.” Painfully gentle. How was it that Cas could make that one single solitary syllable say and mean  _ so many  _ things? “Dean,  _ please _ . Look at me.”

Couldn’t say no to that. He owed Cas after all the shit he’d put him through, after fucking  _ kissing him  _ without his fucking consent.

Strange, but Cas was blushing too, and his eyes kept sliding off to the side like he was having just as much trouble holding Dean’s gaze as Dean was holding Cas’s.

Maybe Cas just needed reassuring that things wouldn’t be  _ weird  _ from now on. Or at least until Sammy Shawshanked their asses and Cas could run far far away from him for ever and ever. “Look man, you don’t gotta worry. I won’t try that again, okay?”

Cas’s eyes did that funny darting thing again, and if anything, his blush grew deeper. He still had one hand on Dean’s shoulder, and the other one--the one whose palm Dean could still feel tingling against his lips if he let himself indulge--came to rest in the center of his bare chest, right over his heart. He was staring lasers into Dean’s eyes again, like he’d done since the night they’d met and never stopped doing since. “I have a . . . confession to make. Two, actually. I’d ask only that you let me do so without interruption. If you’d like me to return to my own cell when I’m finished, I understand.”

Why on earth would Dean want Cas to leave? Cas wasn’t the one who’d fucking molested his best friend. Who’d used the image of him--the  _ very naked  _ image--in the middle of being sexually assaulted. Who’d gotten them both stuck down here in the first place. And--because the hits just kept coming with Dean, didn’t they--who’d tossed him on his ass, alone and helpless, when he’d needed him most.

But Cas was still staring at him like this was the most super serious serious to ever serious, so Dean bit his fucking tongue and nodded.

Cas nodded too, but maybe less at Dean and more at himself, like he was rallying his courage. Dean knew that kind of nod, he’d seen it plenty in the mirror, but this was  _ Cas _ . Cas never faltered, ever. So what the fuck?

“I’m not . . . always as good as I’d like to be with words, Dean. Or human feelings. I--”

“Your people skills are rusty, eh?” Dean asked through a crooked smile, because holy crap did the tension in this room ever need defusing, and Dean kinda thought he maybe knew where this was going and couldn’t nope out fast enough, couldn’t just lie here like an invalid while Cas told him they were through.

“Well, yes,” Cas admitted. “But surely even in your fevered state, you understand  _ without interruption _ .”

“Sorry,” Dean mumbled, even though Cas looked more like he was trying not to smile than like he was trying to scowl.

“Anyway,” Cas said, overstressing just enough to make his point clear. “I learned so much of how to be human from you, and from Sam.” Dean almost apologized for his shitty example, but remembered  _ no interruption  _ at the last second. “And while you’ve been invaluable teachers--in all my many millennia of existence, you’re the best men I’ve ever known--” Cas held up a pre-emptive hand, knowing Dean well enough to know he couldn’t help trying to argue there. “Neither of you exactly excel at expressing, or perhaps even recognizing, your own feelings.”

_ No shit, Sherlock. Which is why I fucking kissed you without fucking asking. _

“So it comes as no surprise that I’ve failed in that regard myself. But, Dean . . .” He paused, eyes laser-locked on Dean’s again, and the hand he’d held up to silence Dean a moment earlier now moved toward Dean’s face, slowly, so slowly, as if asking permission, or maybe it was fear, Dean didn’t know, but he held still and he held Cas’s gaze and let that hand settle on his cheek, big and warm and gentle and achingly tender, and it took every last drop of strength inside him not to close his eyes and nuzzle into that palm and kiss Cas all over again.

Just as slowly, Cas’s lips turned up at the corners, his grin as warm and gentle and achingly tender as his touch, and he said, “But surely you must know that I love you, Dean.”

Sure. Best friends. Brothers, even. But friends moved on. Brothers got pissed and left. Dean’d crossed the line, he knew it, and--

Cas shook his head, still smiling that soft tender smile, like he’d read Dean’s mind. “That I am  _ in love  _ with you, Dean.”

_. . . What?  _

No. No way. Fucking impossible. This was a fever dream, a hallucination borne of infection and desperation. Had to be.

But Cas’s thumb felt so solid, so real, as it stroked across his cheekbone. And Cas’s eyes shimmered with such intensity, his voice brimming with such emotion . . . Dean had no experience from which to pull this hallucination. Nobody’d ever looked at him like that his entire fucking life. Nobody’d ever said his name like that. Ever. So he  _ couldn’t  _ be imagining this . . . right?

“Hester was right; I  _ was  _ lost the moment I laid a hand on you in Hell. But not in the way she thought. You didn’t corrupt me, Dean; you made me  _ better _ .”

No.  _ No.  _ He’d  _ destroyed  _ Cas, he’d-- “Cas--”

The hand cupping his cheek slid over his mouth, no force behind it at all this time but it shut Dean right up anyway. “It’s true, Dean. I’d never seen a soul so bright and beautiful as yours, and had I understood, then, what love truly was . . .” Cas shook his head, blinked, and the shimmer in his eyes coalesced into tears, unshed but undeniably there. 

_ Don’t cry over me,  _ Dean wanted to say,  _ I’m not worth it _ , but Cas’s hand was still resting against his lips, and anyway there was also no denying how much Dean ached to hear the rest of what Cas had to say, no matter how ridiculous or misguided or guilt-driven it was.

“But I understand now, and I have wanted to kiss you for what feels like eons.” Cas lifted his hand from Dean’s mouth, brushed his fingers over Dean’s lips like he couldn’t help himself, licked his own. Through the fog of fever and rush of adrenaline and anxiety and panic, it was slowly occurring to Dean that this was  _ real _ , this was  _ happening _ , Cas  _ loved him and wanted to kiss him. _

But then . . . why hadn’t he? Did he . . . did he not feel the same anymore after what he’d seen down here? And yes sure Dean had promised not to interrupt but he  _ had  _ to know, “So why didn’t you?”

Cas’s eyes slid away from Dean’s again, and he pulled his hand back from Dean’s lips, curled his fingers into a loose, hesitant fist, and Dean could’ve sworn he felt his heart  _ literally  _ shattering into pieces because he could’ve had this, he could’ve had it this whole time and he’d fucking  _ blown  _ it like he blew everything he was fucking poison he fucked up everything he touched and--

Cas’s hand cupped his cheek again. “Please don’t, Dean. I know you, I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not your fault.”

Dean snorted bitterly. “It’s not you, it’s me, huh?”

“No, I--” Cas tilted his head, squinted his little baby bird squint. “I just told you, it’s  _ me. _ ”

Oh my god Dean did  _ not  _ have the patience for this  _ who’s on first  _ shit, not when he was standing over all those shattered bits of his heart with a dustpan in one hand and the world’s most fragile jar of superglue in the other. “Okay, Cas. How’s it you?”

Cas’s eyes did that sliding thing again, right down to the floor, and his cheeks flushed, and he pulled his hand back like he couldn’t even bear to touch Dean while he explained. “When you were . . . when Alexio was . . . pleasuring you,” he murmured to his bare feet, and if Dean’d had the strength to hop out of bed and physically flee Cas’s recrimination, he would’ve. But he was fucking stuck there like the weakling he was--the same one who hadn’t been strong enough to resist Alexio’s touches, just like he wasn’t strong enough to escape this discussion now.

“He was . . . he was  _ hurting  _ you, I know he was, even if the pain wasn’t physical. Forcing your pleasure upon you against your express wishes, and yet . . . I . . .” Cas was looking away so hard now he’d nearly turned his head over his shoulder, but there was no missing how red his whole face had gone, all the way down his neck and to the top of his chest. Was Cas really that embarrassed for Dean’s weakness? How was he ever gonna look his friend in the face again?

_ He wasn’t, that’s how. He’s leaving. He’s trying to tell you we’re done. _

Cas swallowed, hard. (Dean did, too.) Swallowed again. And then, all in a quiet rush like it was one big whispered word, “Iwasaroused.”

. . .

An actual fucking record actually fucking screeched in Dean’s head-- _ thanks, fever _ \--and he had to rewind the whole damn scene and play it back again just to make super extra certain he’d heard it right the first time. “You . . . what?”

Finally, Cas turned back to face him. “I know,” he practically moaned, face and voice so full of misery it hurt Dean to witness. “I  _ know  _ how unforgivable it was, I  _ know  _ he was forcing you, but I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t  _ stop  _ myself, Dean. You were writhing in your pleasure, and the sounds you were making, I . . .” Cas bit his lip, dropped his eyes again, still blushing furiously. “I’d imagined, since becoming human . . . I’ve . . .  _ fantasized  _ that you’d granted  _ me  _ the honor of pleasuring you so, of making you writhe like that, of pulling such sounds from you, and I--” He sucked in a deep, watery breath, and stood from the bed as he blew it out. “I have no excuse. I am ashamed. I--”

“Cas--”

“--I have betrayed your trust and betrayed your friendship--”

“ _ Cas _ \--”

“--and taken advantage of your captivity and--”

Dean mustered the energy to sit up and throw his pillow at the idiot. “ _ Cas! _ ”

A face full of bedding finally shocked Cas into shutting the fuck up. He stood there, clutching at Dean’s pillow and looking as miserable and confused as Dean had ever seen him. Before Dean could say anything else, Cas took two steps to the bed to return the pillow, then took two steps back again, squared his shoulders and waited, like he was ready for whatever punishment Dean was gonna dish.

Well, fuck that noise, cos a) Cas hadn’t done anything wrong, and 2), Cas _ didn’t hate him _ . Cas  _ loved  _ him. Fuck, Cas had  _ fantasized  _ about him. In, like,  _ explicit detail _ . And Cas had never been disgusted with Dean; he’d been disgusted with  _ himself _ .

_ Yeah, welcome to the club, buddy. _

“Cas, listen.” Fuck, he was tired. He wanted to do this at least sitting up, but it wasn’t happening; he sagged back to the pillow, but kept his eyes firm on Cas. “Look, it’s . . .” Even with Dean lying down again, Cas was still just standing there like some stoic soldier waiting to be flogged. “Would you  _ sit down _ , please?”

Cas nodded stiffly, took two equally stiff steps back to Dean’s bed, and sat down even more stiffly near Dean’s feet.

Fine. Whatever. “Okay, first, I’m not mad.” 

Cas’s head snapped up at that, shock stamped clear on his face, but he said nothing, waited for Dean to continue. Which Dean very very much did not want to do, because if all this  _ feelings  _ talk was hard, well, having a fucking  _ birds and bees  _ talk with a fucking  _ (ex) angel of the Lord  _ was even harder.

“Look, you haven’t been human for very long, so you gotta trust me on this one, okay? But, uh, when a dude’s watching people having sex, he’s gonna, uh. Respond. You know?”

Cas gave him the squint-n-tilt like he absolutely did not know. 

Dean sighed. “Okay, so, you see a, uh, a guy you like, yeah? Someone you wanna get it on with?” Which,  _ holy shit, Cas has  _ fantasized  _ about getting it on with me God I dunno what I did to deserve that but please let it be real please let me have just this one thing please please please _ . Even if he was a giant piece of shit. Even if he didn’t deserve it. He’d suffered enough. He  _ wanted  _ it,  _ wanted  _ that feeling like his chest was full of hot air balloons and fucking butterflies and he was soaring through the fucking stratosphere. 

But first he had to fucking  _ fix  _ this. “So you see that guy being pleasured, and in your head you might know it’s . . . not consensual, you know? That he doesn’t want it, even if he’s getting off on it. But your body? It don’t know the difference for shit. It doesn’t care. It sees people turned on and it gets turned on too. It’s just doing what it’s programmed to do: get excited at excitable things.”

Both the squint and the tilt grew deeper. “So what you’re saying is that my reaction was . . . normal?”

“Yeah, Cas. I mean, it’s not like you . . . uh. Touched yourself or anything while he . . . Um. Right?”

Cas reared back like he found the idea beyond abhorrent. “Of course not! I would never participate in such a violation!”

Dean reached out to pat Cas’s knee, but couldn’t manage with him all the way down there at the end of the bed. “I know, Cas.” And he did know, because Cas was fucking pure, unlike Dean. “Seriously, though, man, that was totally natural. You couldn’t stop it if you tried, just like I couldn’t stop getting turned on when he touched me no matter how hard I tried.” And yeah okay that totally wasn’t the same at all--a little innocent newly-human wood wasn’t  _ shit  _ compared to getting off on being raped--but Cas didn’t have to know that. “Don’t feel bad, and don’t feel  _ ashamed _ . It’s okay.”

Cas’s shoulders slumped, and the relief on his face was so intense Dean could hardly bear to look at it. “Well then in that case,” Cas murmured, low and sly, and next Dean knew Cas was on his hands and knees, crawling up the bed and over Dean and leaning in for a kiss and--

“ _ Wait _ . Cas . . . wait.”  _ God _ , he wanted it, craved it like fucking air, but . . .

Cas pulled back, settled on his haunches with a worried frown. “Am I . . . Was that too forward?”

Dean shook his head against his pillow, closed his eyes and blew out a breath. Chuckled darkly to himself and said, “It’s not you, it’s me.”

Cas didn’t seem to find the humor in that at all. Just pursed his lips together and then said, “I don’t understand.”

Dean scrubbed at his face with his good hand. God, even his eyeballs felt scorched. He was suddenly, terribly thirsty. Had no idea how he’d held things together in his head long enough to have any of these conversations with Cas, let alone love confessions and discussions of male plumbing. 

_ We’re working on the power of love _ . 

Or maybe just the power of sheer, unadulterated terror. Because: “I got my own confession to make, okay?”

Cas nodded, attentive and solemn. “Okay.”

“So uh. When Alexio was . . .” Ugh, he hated even  _ thinking  _ about this, let alone talking about it. “When he was, uh. Forcing me. I, uh. I thought of you.”

Cas’s lips parted, and his eyes creased down at the corners--he looked absolutely  _ stricken _ . “You thought of me hurting you like that?”

“What? No! God, no, Cas. No.  _ No.  _ Never.” With each denial, a little more distress eased from Cas’s face, until there was nothing left but confusion. “What I meant was that I, uh. I imagined he was you but, like, in a  _ good  _ way. Like it was  _ you  _ who was doing those things to me. Like I  _ wanted  _ them.”

Cas’s confusion melted into some kind of stupid soft tenderness that Dean absolutely did not deserve. “That’s . . . actually quite touching, Dean.”

“What?  _ No _ ! It’s not  _ touching _ , Cas, I  _ used  _ you!”

This time it was Cas who patted Dean’s knee, which, yeah, not patronizing  _ at all _ , and was he . . . was he  _ smiling _ ? “You mean you  _ fantasized  _ about me, just as I’ve admitted to fantasizing about you, which, I’ll remind you, you said was perfectly natural.”

“No, but-- I mean okay yeah I guess  _ technically  _ you could say that, but I-- This is  _ different _ , Cas! You were just having a . . . a harmless fantasy, okay? I was . . . I was  _ being raped  _ and  _ getting off on it  _ thinking of you!”

Cas’s smile faded, of course it did, and now the hammer would come down. Dean braced himself as best he could, but the truth was he had no strength left in him at all to deflect the blow, and even seeing it coming, it was still gonna hurt more than his fucking hand did.

“So if I’m understanding correctly, you’re telling me that you found such comfort in the thought of my presence, my touch, that imagining your attacker was me instead--was us, together--was able to ease your distress in a most distressing circumstance.”

Well, when he put it like  _ that _ . . . “I . . .” 

“As I said before, Dean, that’s quite touching. I’m honored to have been of some comfort to you, however small, through such a terrible time.” Cas scooted a little closer, and the hand on Dean’s knee moved back to his chest, right in the center over his heart. He leaned in, conspiratorial, deadly serious. “Truth be told, it makes me feel less helpless to hear it. I’m not sure I have  _ ever  _ felt such impotent rage, such fury, such disgust with another being as I did with Alexio when he had his hands on you and I could do nothing to stop him.”

Dean lowered his gaze, because no way could he keep looking at that much intense sincerity without his already-pounding heart thrashing straight out of his chest.  _ Like it’s trying to leap right into Cas’s hand. Take it; it’s yours anyway. _

Holy shit, corny much, Dean?

But whatever. He wasn’t gonna lie to himself anymore, not about this, not with all that air already cleared between them. But he just . . . he had to make  _ sure . . .  _ “So you don’t . . . you’re not mad?”

That warm, gentle smile was back, and the hand on his chest began to wander a little, thumb stroking slowly, back and forth. “Of course not, Dean. And you’re not upset with me?”

Dean laid his good hand atop Cas’s where it still lay over his heart, let his own thumb stroke the side of Cas’s wrist. “Of course not, Cas.”

“Well then, I repeat: In that case . . .”

Cas leaned forward, slowly, slowly,  _ definitely  _ seeking permission this time, and though it nearly killed Dean, like, actually,  _ literally  _ caused physical pain, he whispered, “Wait.”

Cas froze--didn’t keep going, didn’t pull back, just hovered there, poorly hiding his disappointment. “Yes?”

“The cameras, Cas. He’ll  _ kill  _ you.”

“He’s gone for hours,” Cas murmured into those scant few aching inches from Dean’s lips. “He made that very clear.”

“But what if he--”

“Dean. I can think of no more worthy risk to take.”

Dean wasn’t sure he agreed with that, but there was absolutely no arguing at all with how awesome it felt when Cas finally,  _ finally _ closed the gap between them and kissed him fucking right.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chag sameach to my fellow MOTs!

For all of Cas’s lack of practical experience, he was surprisingly confident at this. It was a gentle kiss, soft and sweet and undemanding despite a hunger, an  _ urgency  _ so poignant Dean could taste it on Cas’s skin. Cas’s lips parted, and while his tongue teased at Dean’s lips, it didn’t delve beyond. To be honest, Dean was glad of it; he was too tired to reciprocate anything quite so enthusiastic, panting a little too hard from effort and arousal both.

Cas was propped on one hand, but the other one slipped through Dean’s hair, behind his head, angling him just right without any effort on Dean’s part, and Dean sighed against Cas’s mouth, closed his eyes and let himself savor this thing he never dared to dream he could have, this precious, fragile moment he feared he wouldn’t even believe was real once his fever broke. Cas’s lips, adept and full and a little chapped; Cas whispering Dean’s name between nips and kitten licks; Cas’s hand wrapped around his head, warm and strong and, yes, even a little possessive. Cas pulling back way too soon and locking eyes with Dean and saying, in no uncertain terms, no fumbling or mincing like Dean would’ve, “I love you beyond all measure, Dean Winchester.”

Dean bit his traitorously trembling lower lip, palmed Cas’s cheek, and tried to push the whole depth of his own feelings into his gaze. “I, uh. I’m not so good with the whole . . .” He licked his lips--still tasted of Cas; he could live to be a thousand and never get enough of that--cleared his throat, didn’t let himself chicken out and drop his eyes. “Uh,  _ feelings  _ thing, you know? But if I let myself die  _ again  _ without telling you I love you, I’d have to haunt your ass just to fix my fuckup, so . . .”

Cas grinned, nose crinkling in that adorable way of his--because yeah, fuck it, he was totally allowed to think of Cas as  _ adorable  _ now--and turned his head to kiss Dean’s palm. “So you love me,” he said, eyes sparkling with mischief. 

Dean swallowed, nodded against his pillow. His arm got too tired to keep his hand held up against Cas’s face, so he let it drop, found one of Cas’s and laced their fingers together on Cas’s thigh instead. “Yeah, Cas. Yeah. I--”  _ Come  _ on  _ Dean, just fucking  _ say  _ it. _ “Iloveyou.”

Cas brought their joined hands to his lips and kissed Dean’s knuckles. “Then you must promise me something, Dean.”

“Anything,” he breathed, automatic, unthinking, utterly sincere.

“Don’t die here.”

“I . . .” Shit. He didn’t want to, not anymore, not with Cas to protect, with Cas to  _ love _ , with Cas to  _ love him back _ , but . . . “Cas, I . . . I really don’t know if I can promise that.”

Cas’s expression darkened, and his hand clamped down on Dean’s almost hard enough to hurt. “You said  _ anything _ , Dean. This is the promise I require. _ This one _ .”

God damn it. “And you? Can you promise me the same?”

“Yes.” No doubt, no hesitation. If Cas could be  _ that certain _ , even with Alexio feeding on him, Alexio hating him, Alexio looking for excuses to hurt him, well . . .

“Okay then. I promise. We’ll walk outta here together.”

“Good.” Cas leaned in to press another soft, sweet kiss to Dean’s lips, there and gone far too fast. When Dean made an abortive move to chase after him, Cas gentled him back to the bed with hands on both shoulders. “You need rest if you intend to keep that promise.”

Wasn’t even like he could argue he wasn’t tired, seeing as he’d barely managed to lift his head an inch off his pillow. But he couldn’t stop the fear that if he let go of this moment, it wouldn’t be here when he woke up. No more kisses. No more confessions of love. Just a sad, lonely fever dream.

But right now, fever dream or no, Cas  _ got  _ him, got him way down deep, because he glanced at the clock and then back at Dean and said, “Alexio will be gone at least two more hours.” And then he pulled back the blankets and fit himself into the narrow space between Dean and the cage bars, laid on his side and ever-so-carefully shifted and tucked and snuggled his way into the big spoon. 

“Cas--”

“Am I hurting you?”

Miraculously, “No, but . . .” Dude was a frigging octopus and truth be told, short of their freedom there was nothing in the world Dean wanted more than to  _ have this _ , but . . . “If he comes back early . . .”

“He won’t.”

“But how do you k--”

Cas’s arm tightened around his middle. “He  _ won’t _ .”

“And what if you fall asleep, or lose track of time?”

“I won’t, Dean.”

“Okay but you’re human now, you get tired, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed but a monster’s been  _ eating you  _ and--”

“ _ Dean _ . Do you  _ want  _ me to go?”

“What? No! Of course not!” To prove his point, or maybe just because Cas felt so damn warm and soothing and perfect and just generally all-around awesome, Dean squirmed a little closer to him. “I just . . . if he sees us like this,  _ you’re  _ not gonna be able to keep  _ your  _ promise.”

Cas kissed the back of Dean’s head, and though Dean couldn’t see his face, he could feel the tenderness in that touch, the unspoken promise. “He did order me to care for you.”

“Pretty sure naked spooning ain’t a part of his approved playbook.”

“Then I’ll tell him you were wracked with chills that jarred your hand and this was the only way to soothe you enough to prevent further harm.”

Dean sighed, let his eyes slip closed. “You got an answer for everything, don’t you?”

“When have I ever not?”

Dean smiled sleepily. “Asshole.”

Cas kissed his head again. “Sleep, Dean. I’ll watch over you.” 

* * *

Despite the fever, the fear, the relentless pain, Dean had maybe never slept better than he did in Cas’s arms. Even though the painkillers had worn off while he was out--which, holy shit wow that hit him fresh like a cosmic wrecking ball every damn time--he actually woke up feeling a tiny bit less exhausted than he had when he’d gone to sleep. And also more than a tiny bit disappointed to realize that Cas wasn’t holding him anymore. Which meant their little respite would be over soon.

Scratch that, it was over  _ now _ . Turned out Dean had woken--as he more or less always did these days--to the sound of the cage door opening, Alexio shuffling through with a pair of cloth shopping bags.

Which was when Dean realized, in a rush of panic so intense he tasted the sharp metal tang of adrenaline on the back of his tongue, that Cas was still in bed with him. In fact the reason his pillow felt so lumpy was because it was actually Cas’s thigh, and the reason his forehead felt so cool was because Cas was holding a wet washcloth on him.

Alexio seemed to realize this at the same time Dean did, as if he hadn’t checked the cameras before coming downstairs. Dean watched him stiffen as he took in the scene, flailed desperately for a way to explain this that wouldn’t get Cas killed--

“I trust he cared well for you?” Alexio asked Dean like Cas wasn’t even there, voice as stiff as his posture but hey, if he wasn’t hulking out, that was all Dean cared about.

“Yeah. Yeah, ‘course.”

“How’s the pain?”

Somewhere between blinding and heart-attack-inducing, so, “Not as bad since you lanced it.” Dean eyed the bags in Alexio’s hands. “But I sure wouldn’t say no if you brought me some morphine.”

Alexio’s massive shoulders sagged. “I want you to know that I did try”

Wow. Awesome. Four for you, Alexio.

With a sigh, Alexio dragged himself and his bags over toward Dean. He looked almost as tired as Dean felt. What time was it? He placed the bags on the floor and sat on the edge of Dean’s already crowded bed, then physically knocked Cas’s hand away from Dean’s forehead to take over cold compress duty. God help him, Dean missed Cas’s touch  _ already _ .

“Back to your cell, hunter,” Alexio growled. 

Without saying a word, Cas extricated himself as carefully as possible. When he got out from under Dean, he reached for a pillow to replace his leg with, but Alexio snatched it from his hands and then tossed him to the floor like a broken toy. 

Cas cried out when he hit, but Dean knew better than to let his concern show on his face right now, and in any case Cas scrambled to his feet a second later so he couldn’t have been hurt too bad. Dean couldn’t look anymore though because Alexio was lifting his head to make room for the pillow and smiling down at Dean with a soft, heartfelt regret-slash-concern that Dean knew he should at least  _ look  _ grateful for if he wanted to keep the fucker happy.

Alexio lifted the compress from Dean’s forehead and used it to wipe down Dean’s face and neck. “I know a vet about an hour north of here,” Alexio began, but that was all Dean needed to hear to know how the story would end. He and Sammy “knew” a few vets, too.

“Antibiotics?” he asked. Alexio nodded and grinned, every inch the proud provider. Which, wow, fuck that noise, because seriously, Dean wouldn’t  _ need  _ the antibiotics if Alexio hadn’t fucking tortured him. “But no painkillers?”

It was deeply, deeply satisfying to watch Alexio’s face fall. “The vet isn’t willing to risk back-channel sales of any controlled substances.”

“Plenty of other places to get em,” Dean groused.

Alexio didn’t appreciate that little jab, if his scowl was any indication. “None that  _ I’m  _ willing to risk. If I’m arrested and my home is searched . . .”

_ Oh, the horror,  _ Dean almost said, but even out of his head with pain and fever he knew how important it was to play nice--now more than ever, with Cas on Alexio’s shitlist and his newly-human ass not exactly awesome at hiding his emotions. So he forced all the bitterness from his tone and said, “I get it, man. It’s okay. I’ll live.” A pause, and then he couldn’t quite resist adding a grumbled, “Probably.”

Alexio folded the compress back on Dean’s forehead and locked eyes with him. “You  _ will _ . I swear it, Dean, I’ll let no harm come to you.”

_ Oh my god are you fucking kidding me.  _ He managed to contain his snort, but just barely. When he said nothing else, like apparently  _ OMG Alexio you’re my hero  _ or some bullcrap like that, Alexio just scowled a little and eventually, awkwardly broke the silence by reaching into the first bag at his feet.

“I know this may look intimidating,” he said as he pulled out some glass vials, an IV bag, and a start kit, “but I assure you I know what I’m doing. When I came to the new world, I apprenticed and then worked at public hospitals for nearly four decades.”

Wow, so Alexio practiced medicine on the dinosaurs. Super comforting.

“It seemed prudent,” he added, apparently content to hold an entirely one-sided conversation, “that I learn to eat without killing.” He kept talking as he laid out equipment on the bed--saline, vancomycin, ampicillin, syringes, IV needle and tubing. “After World War II, I grew weary of the endless despair you humans always manage to inflict upon one another”--yeah, cos minotaurs were  _ so  _ fucking delightful and kind to humans--“and I set out to find more . . . permanent solutions to my hunger. But by then I was of course perfectly capable of starting an IV.”

Jesus, did they even know what a fucking  _ germ  _ was back then? Apparently so, because after Alexio hooked sterile tubing to the bag of saline and injected a dose of each antibiotic into the bag’s needle port, he opened the start kit, pulled on the sterile gloves, and prepped the back of Dean’s good hand with an alcohol pad. The catheter went in surprisingly easy, barely even hurt. Alexio connected the IV bag and taped up the tubing like a pro. 

“You may experience some pain at the IV site from the antibiotics. Stomach upset, as well. You’ll need both antibiotics twice a day via IV for about a week.” Great, more reasons to make him a pin cushion. “Then we can switch to oral. Here.” Alexio reached into the second bag and pulled out a neon yellow bottle of Gatorade. “Try to drink it all. Would you like a straw?”

It felt shameful to say yes--to admit he was too damn weak to lift his head, let alone sit up--but he nodded because holy shit was he thirsty and it wasn’t like he had a shred of pride left anyway. Besides, who was here to judge him? Alexio clearly  _ liked  _ playing nurse, and Cas . . . well, Cas probably wasn’t judging him.  _ Definitely  _ probably wasn’t judging him.

Alexio unscrewed the cap off the Gatorade because obviously Dean couldn’t right now, popped a straw in it, and then handed Dean a little pile of pills. “Tylenol, ibuprofen, and a multivitamin,” he said before Dean could ask. “Are you hungry? Would you like some soup? Toast? Crackers, maybe?” Dean shook his head--food,  _ ugh _ \--then took the pills with a long pull on the Gatorade. 

By the time he was done holding his head up enough to swallow half the bottle, he’d exhausted himself nearly to sleep. The Gatorade would’ve slipped right out of his fingers if Alexio hadn’t rescued it. 

Dean was right on the cusp of cool, blessed unconsciousness when the bed dipped, jarring him back awake. He was  _ almost  _ out of it enough to blow everything by murmuring Cas’s name, but thank fuck he caught that one just in time, because it wasn’t Cas crawling into bed with him, obviously.

Alexio was a lot bigger, for one thing. And a whole heaping fuckton of a lot less welcome. Also not as careful as he tucked himself under the blankets and lampreyed to Dean’s side, putting pressure on his sore ribs and his sore shoulder  _ and  _ jarring his busted hand where it was propped on its pillow. Dean gritted his teeth but didn’t bother to bite back the little whine that escaped his throat, and Alexio, thank fuck, apologized and readjusted until he wasn’t hurting Dean anymore. Except for the part where he was still plastered to him like four tons of wet paper towels.

“Sleep, my sweet human. I’ll be right here if you need me; I won’t leave your side until you’re better.”

Great, just fucking great. “M’too hot,” he tried, squirming a little under Alexio’s blanketing arm and leg.

But of course Alexio just flipped the fucking covers back, rather than, oh,  _ get the fuck off him _ . So now he was stuck cuddling his rapist  _ and  _ his feet were cold. And the fucker wasn’t gonna leave him alone for  _ days _ ? There was no way this could possibly end well.

He pressed the icy soles of his feet against Alexio’s shins because fuck that asshole, that’s why, and then closed his eyes and tried to let sleep take him. He needed it bad, wanted it terribly--the peace, the escape, the respite from the pain--but Alexio’s breath was puffing hot and moist against the side of his neck, and  _ of course  _ the dude was getting fucking wood smooshed up against Dean like he was, so sue Dean if he was too fucking anxious to nod off.

But after a long few minutes, when Alexio had made no move to deal with that baseball bat in his pants, Dean gradually felt himself unwinding. Focused instead on having Cas in his bed again one night,  _ every  _ night even, once they got out of here, Dean happily playing the little spoon again while his angel held him tight and whispered words of devotion in Dean’s ear. And yeah they still had a ton of shit to work through--Dean hadn’t even gotten to explain or apologize for tossing him out of the bunker yet--but they could make it work, he was sure of it. Really pretty sure, anyway. Sure enough. They could have this. They  _ could _ .

All they had to do now was make it out of here alive.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No new chapter, but omg I had to share this fanart done by the amazing Jade, who you can find at https://k6034.tumblr.com/. She generously donated a commission to the Fandom Trumps Hate auction and this was the result :D
> 
> It is so very, very NSFW, and also trigger warning for rape. If you want to see it in higher res, it's at http://rachelhaimowitz.tumblr.com/post/159508101171/omg-u-guise-look-at-this-amazing-illustration. That'd be a good place to show the artist some love, too, as she's tagged on and has also been linked to that post :)


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick little update. Trigger warnings in the end notes.

The next several days passed in a haze of boredom and longing and absolutely cloying quantities of unwanted attention. Which was better, Dean supposed, than a haze of agony and deathly illness. His hand still hurt something fierce, but it was  _ nothing  _ compared to before the drugs. The antibiotics were potent, and by the end of the second day he’d been down to a nice safe low-grade fever. Even that was gone by the end of day five. Too bad Alexio wouldn’t get gone too; the fucker kept insisting on sleeping with Dean, bathing Dean, spoon-feeding Dean (an especially contentious process, between the indignity and the way the drugs and the pain killed his appetite). In other words, spending every waking second with Dean, doting on him  _ endlessly _ , which meant of course that Dean had no time at all to be with Cas. Not even small stolen moments with their backs strategically turned to the cameras. Nothing.

In fact, the only time he even got to hear Cas’s voice was when Alexio was extracting his daily meal, and screaming didn’t exactly count, did it.

_ Come on, Sammy, where the fuck are you? _

Now Dean was finishing up the evening’s antibiotic course, half-asleep already despite his best intentions to stay up reading or some shit so he wouldn’t have to play little spoon to Alexio all night. 

No such luck. Next he knew he was waking to Alexio’s knee wedged between his legs, Alexio’s arm curled over his side and tight to his chest, Alexio’s lips pressed to his neck--and Alexio’s lube-slick finger worming inside him.

He jerked his hips away from that finger and hissed, “What the  _ fuck _ , man! Not cool!”

Alexio’s hand slid from his chest to his belly and exerted pressure, holding him in place. “I hunger, beloved,” he murmured against the shell of Dean’s ear, then sucked the lobe into his mouth.

Nope. Nuh uh. Not happening. Dean shook his head. “I don’t care! You don’t fucking touch a man in his  _ sleep _ , Alexio!”

The finger came back, and Dean couldn’t get away from it this time, not without starting a real fight he had no hope of winning. “But it’s been so long, Dean. Too long. I’m  _ starving _ , and you’re well again.” Hah, bit of an overstatement there, asshole. “Hush now, I must feed.”

Shit.  _ Shit _ . If Dean fought this, he’d risk losing whatever tenuous trust he’d gained with Alexio, and that could cost them an opportunity to escape. More, even, if Alexio felt betrayed or like Dean had been lying to him--he’d hulk out, hurt them both, maybe even kill Cas. And if Dean tried to play it off like he wanted it but just wasn’t feeling well enough, was too tired, then what were the odds Alexio would go “feed” on Cas instead, like he had been all week with the marrow taps? 

Way too high for him to risk.

“Fine,” he sighed. “Just . . . hurry it up, okay? I’m beat.”

Alexio wasted no time obeying--that slick finger pressed in right down to the last knuckle, then started twisting around, spreading lube inside Dean. Wasn’t pleasant but didn’t hurt, which was the best Dean could hope for, so he laid there and took it and prayed to whatever gods or angels might be listening that Cas was sleeping and would stay asleep until this was over.

He’d barely finished the thought in his head before one finger became two, and then maybe ten seconds later, three. Dean smooshed his face into his pillow, grunted,  _ relax relax relax _ , good hand clenching around the sheets. Alexio was making no bullshit pretense of Dean’s pleasure  _ at all  _ tonight--he was just a warm hole for Alexio to use.

Alexio licked a slimy, disgusting stripe up the back of Dean’s neck as he wedged a fourth finger inside Dean. Didn’t say a word, no encouragement, no instructions, no bullshit platitudes. Just panted against Dean’s skin and rutted against his hip while those fingers worked too rough, too fast, to make space for that massive cock.

All four fingers pulled out about a minute after the first one had gone in, and Dean held his breath, bit down on his pillow  _ don’t wake Cas you don’t want him to see this don’t shout don’t shout don’t be a baby _ \--

Alexio lined up and shoved in deep in one single long, too-fast stroke, and it hurt exactly as much as Dean feared it would, and honestly he probably  _ did  _ wake Cas because the guy was a soldier through and through and soldiers don’t sleep through sounds of violence or distress, no matter how muffled. 

Kinda hard to worry too much about that though with Alexio rutting away like some mindless animal, and it was all Dean could do to keep his bad hand braced as his whole body shook with the force of each thrust. 

“Alexio,  _ easy _ , please . . .” he managed between one choked-back cry and the next, “Slow down, you’re  _ hurting  _ me,” but it didn’t matter for shit, was like Alexio couldn’t even hear him, and yeah this was marginally better than getting off on being raped, but Christ, he’d even cooperated with the fucker--did it have to hurt so fucking  _ much _ ?

At least it was over pretty quick. All that pent-up frustration, he supposed. Alexio came with a hip-slam so hard he would’ve knocked Dean out of bed if he weren’t clinging onto him, then peppered Dean with sloppy open-mouthed kisses while he rode his aftershocks buried deep in Dean’s ass. 

Dean kept waiting for him to fuck off, but when that kept not happening, he finally elbowed Alexio in the ribs and said, “Get off me.”

He was frankly surprised that Alexio listened. Those heavy limbs unwrapped from his body, and Alexio’s cock slid free with a burning squelch, and then the mattress and blankets shifted as Alexio sat up--or so Dean assumed; he didn’t care enough to turn around and confirm it. 

A long moment of silence, and then, “You’re upset.”

“Damn right I’m upset,” Dean snapped, and wasn’t this fucking  _ deja vu _ . He pulled the covers up tight to his chin, wincing as pain flared in his ass. “I’m not a fucking fleshlight,  _ asshole _ . You wanna use someone until they bleed, go to a fetish club and find yourself a masochist. But don’t you  _ ever  _ treat me like that again.”

Ugh, he felt so fucking  _ gross _ . Alexio’s come dribbling down the crack of his ass, all that fucking  _ mess  _ and  _ pain  _ and spit and sweat and there was no way he wasn’t bleeding. But hey, he was allowed to be the jilted lover, allowed to be angry in this specific way, so he was damn well gonna take advantage and  _ vent _ .

Alexio got out of bed, carefully maneuvering himself off the foot end instead of climbing over Dean. Not touching him. Putting distance between them. Dean watched him out of the corner of his eye, saw his shoulders slumped, his head hanging. 

“You’re right,” Alexio finally said. “In my hunger, I . . .” He sighed. Didn’t, for once, bother finishing with his excuse. “I’m sorry.” He took a single step forward, hand out. “I’d like to make it up to you, if you’ll let me.”

Dean didn’t even bother to turn his eyes to Alexio before snapping, “Don’t you fucking touch me right now or I swear to god . . .”

Alexio drew his hand back, took a step away. “All right.” Another pause; Dean couldn’t ever remember seeing Alexio at such a loss before. There had to be a way to use this to his advantage, if only he could think . . . 

“Can I bring you a warm wash cloth, at least?”

“No. I’m gonna shower.” Then added, before Alexio could presume anything, “I’m gonna wash  _ myself _ . You should go for a while. And don’t be watching me on the cameras, either; I’m so pissed at you right now, man, I can’t even stand the thought of that. You hear me?”

More silence. Alexio was still hunched like a scolded child.  _ Good _ . He nodded. “It’s past time for me to make a supply run anyway. We’re nearly out of, well, everything.”  _ Score. Time alone with Cas. _ Alexio took a small step forward, perked up just a little, hopeful. “Any special requests, beloved? Now that you’ve started eating again, what can I bring you?”

Oh, now  _ that  _ was an opportunity. Here’s hoping Alexio was feeling guilty enough. Dean helped that guilt along by not answering, not just yet.

Three . . . two . . . one . . . “ _ Please _ , Dean. Anything at all, just ask. 

Dean finally deigned to raise an eyebrow at Alexio, and the fucker actually leaned forward a little, breath held. “Anything? You really mean that?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“That bar you took me from. They brew their own stout. Best damn beer I’ve ever had. I want one.”

“Dean--”

“You said  _ anything _ .”

Alexio looked crushed. “But the bar is over an hour away, and you shouldn’t be drinking until you’re better, and--”

“So I was well enough to fuck bloody, but not well enough to have a single damn drink to dull the pain with?”

Oh yeah, this argument was over before it’d even begun.

“And while you’re there, they make a maple cream pie that’s to die for. And I could really go for a bowl of the house chili, too.”

A sigh so gusty it ruffled Dean’s hair, and then, “All right, Dean. Anything else?”

“Yeah. Bring enough for him.” He pointed over his shoulder at Cas’s cage. “You’ve forgotten to feed him like five times this week, and he’s too afraid of you to say so. Oh, and leave the door between our cells unlocked in case I need help; you were knocking me around so hard my hand’s a screaming mess again.”

More like  _ still  _ rather than  _ again _ , and it had very little to do with Alexio’s latest rough handling, but it sure was satisfying to see the horrified self-recrimination on Alexio’s face.

“Dean, I’m so sor--”

“Save it. Just go, okay? I don’t even wanna look at you right now.”

Alexio nodded the saddest fucking nod he’d ever seen in his entire life. “As you wish, beloved.”

Without another word, he unlocked the door between the two cells, then keyed himself out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rough rape in this chapter.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EVERYTHING IS BEAUTIFUL IN THIS CHAPTER AND NOTHING COULD POSSIBLY EVER GO WRONG. (And as always, I'm behind answering comments but I ADORE THEM AND U OMG COMMENTS GIVE ME LIIIIIIIIIFE and I will respond tomorrow :D)

The urge to run to Cas the instant Alexio left was nearly overpowering, but he hadn’t put up with this much shit only to get them both killed now. So he levered himself out of bed and did exactly what he said he’d do: secure a plastic bag over his brace with a rubber band, and shower.

He did it all without talking to or even daring to look at Cas. Alexio had been awfully contrite, but Dean wasn’t willing to count on that being enough for him to do as he’d said; he might still very well stick around to watch Dean wash before running his errands. Cas seemed to realize that too, because he also said nothing, and the few times Dean stole a glance in his direction while scrubbing Alexio’s touch away, Cas wasn’t looking at him. 

Which turned out to be a good thing, because just as Dean began to run a washcloth down his crack, his throat and eyes started burning as fiercely as his ass, and he actually had to sit down on the tile basin for a second to get his shit together. And yeah, sure, he was getting awfully fucking tired of taking rape showers, but it wasn’t like he wasn’t  _ used  _ to it by now, so what was with the damn waterworks?

_ That’s enough, Dean. You don’t have time to wallow. Don’t be such a goddamned baby. _

Easier said than done, though. He turned his back to Cas, let the water from the shower wash the tears from his face and just tried to breathe through it, tried to keep quiet, to not let his shoulders shake with the force of this . . .  _ wave  _ that was drowning him.

Christ, what the fuck was  _ wrong  _ with him? He’d been through worse. He’d been through  _ literal Hell _ .

_ Yeah, and you cried like a baby then, too. _

He was just tired, that’s all. Tired and hurt and on the back end of a serious infection that’d killed his appetite for an entire week so of course his tank was empty. This was just . . . another side effect. Nothing more. He was  _ fine _ . He could do this.

He finished washing, not letting himself skip the worst bits no matter how bad they hurt. The urge to curl up on the floor and sob slowly faded, and by the time he was toweling off, he felt ready to face the world again. 

The shitty, violent, messy, ugly world.

Which right now had exactly one good thing going for it: Cas.

Once or twice in Dean’s miserable life, he’d worked up the sack to tell Cas he needed him. But he thought maybe he’d never felt that need more than he felt it now.

Good thing, then, that Cas was a captive audience today. Because otherwise he probably would’ve fucked off a long time ago. Always seemed to, didn’t he--and the one time he’d actually wanted to stay, Dean had  _ told  _ him to fuck off.

“Whatever you’re thinking,” Cas said from the door between their cells, “it’s not your fault.”

Dean turned, totally surprised and also not surprised at all to see Cas hovering there, covered in bruise-ringed puncture wounds from one hip to the other, reading his fucking mind again. Dean snagged a towel, roughed it through his hair and over his skin and then wrapped it around his waist. God knew why he’d suddenly gone shy around the dude--he’d been naked in front of him for how long? Not to mention the whole kiss thing. But he really wasn’t comfortable flapping in the breeze right now.

And there was Cas, still standing in the doorway, flapping in the breeze completely unselfconsciously, as patient as only a being of infinite time and space could be.

“I was thinking,” Dean finally offered, very much  _ not _ looking at Cas’s junk, “that the timing just never seems to work out for us, does it.”

Cas shrugged, took a single step forward, into Dean’s cell but not into Dean’s personal space. “We have now.”

“Yeah, but . . .” Dean got dizzy for a sec, weak-kneed, had to go sit down on the bed. Winced at a painful reminder of what’d just been done to him,  _ again _ . 

Not like he knew how he’d planned to finish that sentence anyway. He’d been waiting  _ so long  _ for this time alone with Cas; why was everything so fucking  _ weird  _ now?

Cas took another tiny step forward, expression unreadable: serious or maybe concerned or maybe just constipated for all Dean knew. “You know,” Cas said on a sigh, “there was a time, not so long ago, when all I had to do was touch you to ease your pain.”

Remorseful, then. Nostalgic. Just plain sad.

And too newly-human to realize . . . Dean met his gaze and said, “That hasn’t changed, Cas.”

It took Cas a few seconds, head tilted and eyes narrowed, to work through Dean’s meaning. But when he did, his whole expression softened into a smile as warm and comfortable and inviting as a hearthfire, and he took one hesitant step forward, a second, a third, tiny progress like he was afraid Dean wouldn’t want to be touched even after what he’d just said. 

Dude was taking forever, and Dean needed him  _ now _ , so he held out his arms in invitation and said, “C’mere, dumbass.”

No more hesitation after that; Cas rushed into the hug, pressing so fiercely close it felt like they’d been vacuum sealed together. 

Dean maybe kind of let out a little sob of relief onto Cas’s shoulder, and Cas somehow held him tighter, rocked them a little and stroked one hand across Dean’s back and murmured, “It’s all right, Dean, I’ve got you,” against Dean’s hair as Dean clung tight and sniffled back stupid embarrassing tears and let Cas work his very human magic.

They stayed like that awhile, he didn’t know how long, though he fought to stay present in the moment, to hold onto it while he still could, to catalog every sensation to keep for later when it’d all be gone. Cas smelled faintly of antiseptic and Alexio’s soap and, beneath that, a sharpness Dean associated with spent adrenaline, with fury and tension and fear. But his hands were strong and steady and gentle on Dean’s back, and his voice never faltered, and slowly, slowly, Dean felt himself relax.

Cas eased them both down onto the bed as Dean’s muscles loosened, arranging them face to face, foreheads nearly touching on Dean’s pillow, blankets pulled up to their shoulders. 

“Is this all right?” Cas asked, and Dean almost failed to swallow the manic laugh that bubbled up. Cas was holding Dean’s good hand in both his own, but other than that, he wasn’t touching Dean at all. Dean’s bad hand lay on the bed in the chasm between their bodies. Even their knees weren’t bumping.

“Yeah, Cas.” His throat still felt tight with the tears he’d shed, or maybe the ones he hadn’t let out yet. He cleared it and tried again. “Yeah. But, uh.” He licked his lips, tipped his head forward until their foreheads touched, curled his knees up until their legs tangled. “But I ain’t gonna break, okay?” Sure, he’d had flashbacks in this bed before, but he’d been crazy feverish then. “I  _ want  _ you to touch me. I n--” He had to clear his throat again. “I need you, man. I need something good to hang onto.”  _ And you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. _

Cas sucked in a breath that sounded as wavery as Dean’s felt, pressed a kiss to his forehead, and said, “If we switch sides, we can be closer without risking your hand; I could be your small cutlery.”

A laugh burst out of Dean so powerful it startled Cas, who nearly jumped right out of Dean’s embrace. “ _ Little spoon _ , you giant dork.” He reeled Cas back in and kissed him smack on the lips. “And yeah. I’d like that.”

Cas did all the shifting around so Dean didn’t have to, and by the time they were done moving, every last inch of Cas was snugged up against Dean, his hair tickling Dean’s nose, both hands clutching at the arm Dean had curled beneath him, Dean’s bad hand slung gingerly across Cas’s ribs and resting on a pillow Cas had tucked against his stomach.

Yeah, Heaven couldn’t hold a candle to this.

They lay there in silence for a while, just taking each other in, taking comfort and giving it as best they could despite the circumstances. Dean kind of missed being able to see Cas’s face, but in a lot of ways, it was easier like this. To give affection. To take it. To let his own face show whatever emotions it wanted to while Cas wasn’t looking.

Cas must’ve felt the same, because while they were lying there not seeing each other, he broke the long silence. “Never in all of my vast existence,” he rumbled, “have I wanted to kill someone as badly as I wished to kill Alexio today.”

Dean appreciated the sentiment, but, “Naw, man. Lucifer, remember? Rafael. Dick Roman.  _ Metatron _ .”

“Not even Lucifer tried to hurt you the way Alexio has,” Cas growled, every muscle tensing in Dean’s hold.

Dean shrugged for Cas’s benefit. “Torture’s torture, man,” he lied, casual as could be. “The kind don’t matter.”

The stiffness in Cas’s back made it clear he wasn’t buying that. Still, he offered, “Perhaps I simply didn’t feel so . . .  _ deeply  _ as an angel.”

“Sorry you had to find that out, Cas.”

“Sometimes, I am too.” He lifted Dean’s good hand to his lips, kissed it. Dean’s whole arm was half-asleep from Cas’s weight, but he felt that clear as day. “But I don’t regret this, Dean. Not for a moment. I wouldn’t trade it for anything, not even my grace.”

“You can’t mean that, Cas,” Dean managed, even has his heart did a weird little fluttery thing inside his chest.

Cas squeezed the hand he’d just kissed. “I can and I do.”

Dean tried to pull his hand back, but Cas wouldn’t let him. “No, listen Cas, I . . . I’m not worth it, you don’t understand, you don’t know what I’ve  _ done _ .” He tugged his hand again, and this time Cas let go. Pulled away altogether, in fact, rolling out away from Dean to face him. Which, shit, just made this like a thousand times harder.

Cas placed the spare pillow between them and reached for Dean’s busted hand, guiding it to rest with the utmost care. Then he brushed his fingertips across Dean’s cheek, through his hair. “I don’t care what you’ve done, Dean. But if we’re keeping a tally, don’t forget the several months during which I repeatedly lied to and betrayed you in my quest to defeat Rafael. Or the time I broke Sam’s wall. Or when I became a false god and wrought untold death upon the world. Or when I unleashed the Leviathan. Or when I--”

“Okay, okay,  _ stop _ . I get it. We’re  _ both  _ colossal fuck-ups.”

Cas’s determined expression turned maudlin. “It’s true I have much to atone for.”

We  _ have much to atone for _ . But Dean knew better than to say that out loud right now. Said instead, “Still, I’d like to think we’ve done more good in the world than harm. I really, truly believe that, Cas. I do.”

Cas seemed to chew that over for a moment. Finally offered Dean a single, hesitant nod.

“Okay but listen Cas, since we’re confessing our fuck-ups and all, there’s something I gotta tell you.”

“I told you, Dean, I don’t care what you’ve--”

“I get that, man, but this is important. Just . . . lemme get this out, please?”

Cas sighed, set his jaw. But then he nodded. Dean wished they were spooning again, wished he didn’t have to look Cas in the face when he admitted what he’d done. But he’d been a coward long enough.

“Okay, so. When I kicked you out of the bunker . . .”  _ Swallow. Breathe. Look him in the fucking eyes like a fucking man. _ “You gotta know, man, I didn’t  _ want  _ you to go.” He chuckled, a sad, broken little sound. “Truth be told, there was almost nothing in the world I wanted more than for you to stay. It’s all I’ve  _ ever  _ wanted,” his mouth added before his brain could catch up and censor it. He cringed at sounding so damn needy, but Cas’s eyes were shining with a warmth he’d never seen in them before, so he let it stand.

“Anyway, the problem was the one thing I wanted more: for Sam to live.”

There went all that warmth in Cas’s eyes. “I swear to you, Dean, I never would’ve tried to stay if I’d known what a danger I was to you both--”

“You weren’t, Cas. The bunker’s warded up the ass, remember? And even if it weren’t, we’ve handled angels plenty before and we’d happily handle them again for you. I’d die for you--we both would. You know that, right?”

Cas didn’t answer--just laid there, frowning in thought. Dean supposed he deserved that.

Time to try a different tack, then. “You remember after the angel fall, when Sam was dying, and I told you about that angel who’d come to help?”

“Ezekiel, yes, of course.”

“Yeah. Well . . .” No way he could keep holding Cas’s gaze while he admitted to a fuck-up  _ this  _ colossal, one that’d cost Cas so much. “Well, he said he could fix Sam, but only from the  _ inside _ , you get me? So I kinda, sorta, maybetrickedSamintobeingpossessed.”

Silence. Presumably of the stunned variety. 

When he finally worked up the courage to peek at Cas, though, all he saw on the guy’s face was understanding.

_ What the actual fuck, Cas. I violate my brother in a way that makes me no better than the monster you want to murder more than fucking  _ Metatron and Satan combined _ , I kick you on your newly human ass, and you’re just . . . chillaxed? _

“I believe I understand,” Cas said to Dean’s gobsmacked confusion. “He was afraid I’d spot his ruse. He told you to get rid of me. Yes?”

Dean nodded.

“I forgive you,” he said, just like that.

No way, too easy. Dean couldn’t even begin to dare to let himself believe it. “Just like that?” he asked, totally failing to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

Cas cocked a crooked little grin and cupped Dean’s cheek. “You were, as you humans say, between a rock and a hard place. You did it for Sam. I understand.” He leaned forward, kissed the tip of Dean’s nose, and how fucking cute was  _ that _ ? “So yes. Just like that.”

Dean huffed a relieved little laugh and kissed Cas’s nose in return. He wanted desperately to hug him, but one arm was currently trapped beneath him and the other arm was fucked sideways, so he settled for pressing their foreheads together, kissing Cas again, this time on the lips. Still couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the fact that he was  _ allowed  _ to do that now, that he could have that, especially after what he’d just told Cas. But maybe the universe wasn’t  _ all  _ out to get him, after all. 

Their little chick-flick moment passed, and Cas pulled back, serious again. “Is Sam still possessed?”

Dean nodded. “And he still doesn’t know. But I been praying to Zeke since the moment I got stuck in here anyway, told him everything I know about Alexio, hoping he could maybe, I dunno, guide Sam to some clues or something. But clearly it hasn’t helped. Do you think . . .” Oh man no, no, this could  _ not  _ be the case, he needed Cas to tell him it wasn’t. “Do you think that maybe Zeke’s heard everything but decided not to help? Or to not even let  _ Sam  _ do his thing?”

“You mean a convenient way to eliminate the only two threats to him possessing Sam forever?”

_ Oh god oh god.  _ “Yeah,” Dean croaked.

“No.”  _ Phew _ . “No, Ezekiel may have been desperate enough to resort to trickery when he first came to you, but he is  _ not  _ a murderer. He would not brook our blood on his hands.”

“Well where is he, then? Why ain’t he here yet? Even without his help, Sam shoulda figured this out by now.”

Cas did that shrugging-with-his-face thing of his. “I wish I had answers, Dean. But you’ve sent Alexio back to the bar where we were taken, so we may have some soon after all.”

Dean nodded. “If Sam’s out of leads, that’s where he’ll be. Or he’ll at least have the place under surveillance. You said he knows what Alexio looks like, and nobody can tail a guy like that kid can, so . . .”

“So if Ezekiel truly isn’t interfering, then help should be on the way soon.”

“Exactly.” But in the meantime, they had to stay alive, so . . . “Hate to say it, but you should probably go back to your own cell. Can’t have him walking in on us like this, you know?”

Cas, the fucker, inched closer. “It was fine last time.”

“I was  _ dying  _ last time. Come on, Cas. We can’t risk it.”

Cas threw him the full-on puppy-eyed pout, but he climbed out of Dean’s bed anyway. Leaned down for a kiss--a  _ real  _ one this time, full of passion and promise--and parted only reluctantly. 

He stood there smiling over Dean for a long moment, Dean smiling right back, before asking, “Is it all right if I raid your pantry?”

Alexio still stocked his food supplies regularly, but never Cas’s. “Yeah, of course. Anytime--take whatever you want.”

They both knew he couldn’t be caught with it once Alexio came home, but Cas took enough for at least three meals anyway, then stopped by Dean’s bed for one last quick kiss before returning to his own cell.

Dean hated to see him go, but for maybe the first time ever down here, he felt . . . hopeful. Happy. They were good. He’d shared his big secret and Cas had forgiven him. Sam was on the way. This endless fucking nightmare was finally almost over.

So he closed his eyes and let himself rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wahey if you're on Tumblr, [come say hi to me.](rachelhaimowitz.tumblr.com) To what I'm sure is everyone's utter shock, my blog is mostly whump (listen, my [hurt!dean tag](rachelhaimowitz.tumblr.com/search/hurt%21dean/) is a thing of beauty), SPN meta, and cats, with the occasional writing and politics posts thrown in. It's my hangout, I basically live there, and there is PLENTY of room in my dumpster for all of you :D
> 
> (ETA: Okay IDK why but AO3 is being really weird right now and instead of the html links functioning like they're supposed to, AO3 is inserting a big URL string in front of them so if you try to click through and that's still happening, my blog is rachelhaimowitz.tumblr.com and my hurt!dean tag is http://rachelhaimowitz.tumblr.com/search/hurt%21dean/.)


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilery trigger warnings at the end.
> 
> As always, I am behind on replying to comments but I love them and you to pieces and I'll catch up tomorrow <3

Dean woke, as he so often did, to the noise of Alexio letting himself into the room. He sat up, peeked into Cas’s cell to make sure Cas was still there--yup, in his own bed, sleeping off all that food he’d eaten from Dean’s pantry--then swung out of bed. He was still playing the angry lover, and he couldn’t exactly do that by meeting Alexio lying down.

At least the fucker had done as he’d promised; he was holding two plastic shopping bags, one of which was imprinted with the word  _ Chaps  _ and a silhouette of a leather-clad biker. He smiled uneasily as he keyed himself into Dean’s cage, and Dean did not smile back as he strode toward the door, hoping to cut Alexio off at the pass before he got any ideas about hanging around or closing the door between his and Cas’s cell--or worse, going  _ into  _ Cas’s cell.

Alexio stopped about five feet from Dean and sighed, shoulders drooping. “I spent all morning in the car and you’re still angry.”

“You’ll be lucky if I ain’t still pissed in a week,” Dean snapped. “My hand’s killing me and my ass bled for an hour. You really think one supply run’s gonna fix that?” He held out his good hand for the bags. “Beer me and go away.”

Alexio took a meek step forward, handed him the imprinted bag. Didn’t go away, though. “I’m afraid I left this morning without giving you your antibiotics. I’ll go, I promise I will, but--” he held up the other bag “--you must have your medicine.”

Dean wasn’t gonna argue with that, but it was no reason to let Alexio off the hook so easy. He skulked over to his little table, unpacked the bag--two big take-out bowls of chili, an entire maple cream pie, and two bottles of the house stout, just like he’d asked for--and scowled up at Alexio as he cracked open his beer. Took a long pull--holy  _ shit  _ that was good, he’d  _ missed  _ beer--before conceding a grumbled, “Fine. Whatever.” Beer in hand, he skulked from the table to his bed. Sat down and held his bad arm out so Alexio could tap a vein above the brace.

He was trying very hard to savor his beer instead of chug it when Alexio sat down beside him and started to unpack the IV supplies from the unmarked plastic bag. But then Alexio froze. Sniffed the air. Turned his head toward Dean and sniffed again.

Dean leaned away. “Dude, get your own beer.”

But of course Alexio couldn’t take a hint--he just leaned over further, shoved his face right up against the side of Dean’s neck--ew,  _ shudder _ \--and inhaled again.

Dean was gearing up to elbow him in the fucking throat--this was  _ not  _ what they’d agreed to, god damn it, and Dean was still  _ pissed _ \--when Alexio growled. And not a turned-on growl, either, but one of those so-low-you-could- _ feel _ -it chill-inducing growls that nearly made Dean piss his non-existent pants. 

Every inch of him froze--except his heart, which started thrashing like he had a hellhound on his heels. He even held his breath as Alexio sniffed him once more, growled again. Wanted to ask what was wrong, but couldn’t quite remember how to make his lips and throat work. Some terrified hindbrain part of him couldn’t help but think,  _ If you stay still and quiet, maybe he won’t notice you. _

And for a second he almost believed it because Alexio pulled away, but he was still growling that paralyzing growl, and now he was leaning over to sniff Dean’s pillow, Dean’s blanket, Dean’s sheets.

And then he shot to his feet, growl turning into an eardrum-rattling roar, and knocked the beer from Dean’s hand with such force that it flew all the way to the back of the cage and shattered against the far wall.

At which point Dean also shot to his feet, cradling his stinging hand to his chest and backing the fuck away from the big angry monster.

Alexio bared his teeth at Dean--lion’s teeth, sharp and pointy and fucking  _ huge _ \--and his entire head  _ morphed  _ as he threw it back and roared again. “I’ll  _ kill him _ ,” he snarled. “How  _ dare  _ he!”

Dean’s brain and mouth were still not communicating with each other the way he wanted them to, and his feet were nearly tripping over themselves to get him  _ away away away _ , but Alexio’s threat was the impetus he needed to bring it all back under control. He took a breath. Stood his ground. Held his hand palm-out and said, as calm and soothing as he could manage, “Easy, man. He didn’t do anything.” He didn’t dare look over into Cas’s cell--because of course that was who Alexio was talking about,  _ of course  _ he’d fucking  _ smelled  _ Cas on Dean, on Dean’s bed. Just kept his eyes locked on Alexio’s rage-filled face and added, “Let’s talk about this, okay?”

Alexio bared his teeth again, chest heaving, muscles corded, one foot pawing at the ground. He lowered his head--deadly horns pointing right at Dean’s face--and growled, “There is  _ nothing  _ to talk about. He was  _ in your bed _ .”

“Whoa, no, no, listen.” Dean swallowed, kept that placating hand out as he dared a single small step toward Alexio, heart pounding so hard he could barely breathe.  _ Hurt me, go ahead, I don’t care; just leave Cas alone _ . “I was just . . . I had a goddamn breakdown, man, okay? I fucking admit it. I was . . .” He swallowed again, tried to arrange his face into some semblance of loving-but-devastated instead of  _ blind-fucking-terrified _ . “You really hurt me, okay? And I just . . . I needed a hug. A shoulder to cry on. He sat with me and he let me vent. But that’s  _ it _ .” 

Alexio hadn’t moved an inch, hands still fisted tight and lips still pulled back from those massive teeth, so Dean added, “Whatever you’re thinking happened here, it didn’t, okay? I belong to  _ you _ , Alexio.” He thumped his heart twice with his good hand. “Just  _ you _ . I’d  _ never _ . . .” He quivered his lip, lowered his gaze, fake-wounded,  _ please work please work please work _ . “Surely you think better of me than that.”

But Alexio was still huffing, still growling, still pawing at the ground. Dean’s heart sank when Alexio hissed, “You  _ lie _ ,” but it’s not like he was surprised.

He closed the distance between them with two quick steps, grasped Alexio’s corded forearm in his good hand. “No, no, listen, Alexio, pl--”

Somehow he was sprawled on his back, the whole left side of his face throbbing. He lurched to his feet, saw Alexio stalking toward Cas, who’d backed up against the far bars, eyes wide and hands up. “Please Aleixo, he wasn’t lying,” Cas said. “I was only taking care of him like you’d asked me to. He did nothing--please, don’t hurt him.”

Dean hardly had time to marvel over  _ Cas  _ worrying about  _ him  _ when Alexio barked an ugly laugh and said, “It’s not  _ him  _ I plan to hurt, hunter.”

Which was  _ exactly  _ what Dean was afraid of. “Don’t!” he shouted as he ran through the door into Cas’s cage. He meant to grab Alexio from behind--he’d drop to his knees and suck Alexio’s cock right there in front of Cas if that’s what it’d take to stop this--but the second he touched the monster’s back, Alexio sent him sprawling again with a swipe so powerful it slammed Dean into the cage bars. 

He hit his head hard enough that everything went black for a second, and for another second after that he couldn’t breathe, but he staggered up anyway as Alexio pinned Cas to the bars by his throat and punched him with his free hand--stomach, chest, face, Cas desperately trying to block, to escape. 

“Stop!” Dean cried. “Alexio,  _ stop this _ !” But Alexio ignored him. A hard backhand knocked Cas right to the floor, and Alexio kicked him while he was down. 

“He’s  _ mine _ !” Alexio screamed, kicking Cas again as Cas tried to crawl away. “How  _ dare  _ you!”

“Nothing happened!” Cas cried as Alexio reached down to scoop him off the floor, clawed hands digging punctures into his arm. Cas shouted at the fresh injury, shouted again as Alexio dragged him to his feet. Dean rushed forward to grab Alexio’s arm, tried to make him let go, but he just ended up on his ass again, head ringing. 

No way he could give up, though--not with Alexio dragging Cas over to the torture table. “Wait, please! He’s telling the truth!” Dean cried as Alexio bent Cas over the table, pinned him by the neck and kicked his legs apart,  _ oh fuck oh fuck oh no  _ Dean knew what that meant he’d been in that position before and he  _ couldn’t  _ let this happen he couldn’t-- “Alexio, stop!” He grabbed at Alexio’s arm again. Didn’t get knocked away this time, but Alexio wasn’t listening to him, either. 

That massive bull’s head lowered to Cas’s ear, and he scented Cas long and lewd before rumbling, “I’ll teach you to touch what’s mine, hunter.” Cas shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut, and Dean tugged frantically at Alexio’s arm, but he might as well have been a marble statue for all Dean budged him. “You are  _ food _ . You are here for  _ my  _ pleasure. For  _ my  _ use.”

“ _ I’m  _ here for your pleasure!” Dean shouted. “Me! Not him!” Dean moved bodily into Alexio’s eyeline, forced himself not to flinch away, made himself stare at that terrifying fucking face like it made him  _ happy _ . He risked a fresh touch to Alexio’s arm, this one gentle. Seductive, even. Lowered his head and blinked up at Alexio through his lashes. “Just . . . come on, come with me.” Licked his lips and tilted his head toward his own cage. “Come to bed with me and forget about him, okay? He ain’t worth it. But I am.”

“ _ Dean _ ,” Cas gritted out through blood-stained lips, no doubt with the intent to tell him to go away, stay safe, let this happen. Damn him for drawing Alexio’s attention again; the fucker must’ve been  _ seriously  _ pissed, because even Dean’s best come-hither face wasn’t moving him. Which, fine, Dean still had one big trick in his arsenal, and he’d do it right here if he had to. He dropped to his knees. Licked his lips again and reached for the zipper of Alexio’s jeans.

“ _ Dean! _ ” Cas repeated, wide-eyed and horrified, because apparently the fucking dumbass had a goddamn death wish. Dean ignored him, but of course Alexio didn’t. He roared. Reached down and grabbed Dean by the hair. Started dragging him into his own cell.

Good. Not the violence--that was gonna  _ suck _ , especially after this morning--but at least Cas was gonna be okay.

Except when Alexio shoved him through the door between their cages, he didn’t follow. Just slammed the door in Dean’s face, then stalked back to Cas, growling low and vicious.

“Damn it, Alexio!” Dean slammed his good hand against the bars, pulled on the door, but it was firmly locked. “Damn it, get back here! I swear to god, Alexio, I--”

Another eardrum-shattering roar, and a glare that made it very clear that every word he said from now on would be coming out of Cas’s hide.

_ Shit. _

Cas was right where Alexio had left him, slumped in a heap at the foot of the torture table. Alexio scooped him back up and bent him over, kicked his legs apart again. Cas didn’t fight him--ether he knew how futile it was, or he didn’t have the energy after the beating he’d taken. Or maybe both. Probably both. Dean met his eyes and tried to tell him without words how sorry he was, that he’d fix this somehow, that it’d be okay, Sam was coming, they’d murder Alexio right in his stupid fucking  _ face  _ and put this behind them and never ever have to speak or think of it again. Cas just blinked back at him, tired and hurting but weirdly calm,  _ It’s not your fault  _ and  _ I forgive you  _ written all over those big blue eyes because even though he didn’t blame Dean, he knew Dean well enough to know that Dean was blaming himself.

Which, of course he was, because Cas had only been in his bed because he’d lost his shit, he hadn’t been strong enough, he’d  _ needed  _ Cas too bad. And now look where they were.

Alexio draped himself over Cas and rumbled in his ear, “Remember this, hunter. Be grateful I don’t crack your bones open one by one and devour you. Touch him again, and I will.”

And then Alexio spat in his hand and reached down to shove himself inside Cas, no prep, no real lube. Dean couldn’t see that, thank god, but it was terrible enough watching Cas’s face crumple, hearing his agonized scream as Alexio drove his hips forward. 

He couldn’t watch this. He  _ couldn’t _ . Bad enough he’d caused it, wasn’t smart enough or quick enough to stop it. Cas deserved the world, and all Dean could give him right now was some thin veneer of privacy while . . . while . . .

His lower lip trembled as he turned away, a tear spilling down his cheek. Couldn’t even cover his damn ears with only one good hand. He sat down on his bed, back to the nightmare in the other cell, and started making promises to Cas in his head. He’d never say no to Alexio again. He’d never be anything less than wholeheartedly enthusiastic. Never give Alexio a reason to need anything ever from Cas--not sex, not even food. Never give him a reason to be jealous again. He’d find a way to fix this. He  _ would _ .

Even if it killed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-graphic rape in this chapter.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news: two chapters in two days!
> 
> Bad news: you're gonna wanna murder me IN THE FACE for the way this one ends ;-p
> 
> Trigger warning: continuation of last chapter's non-graphic rape at the start of this chapter.

Dean had to bury his head in the proverbial sand for  _ way  _ too fucking long. Maybe Alexio was still recovering from the first time he’d blown his load today, or maybe he was having trouble keeping it up with someone he hated, even if it  _ was  _ a punishment fuck. Whatever the case, the torture went on  _ forever _ . Long enough for all that noise Cas was making to fade to dead silence, broken only by the occasional moan or whimper. Long enough for Dean to pray to Zeke, to God, to deny and threaten and bargain and hate all one right after the other. The only fucking stage of grief he hadn’t yet hit was acceptance, and to hell with that--he wasn’t accepting  _ shit _ . He was gonna kill this asshole slow and bloody, and then he was gonna go down to purgatory and drag his soul back through the portal just so he could kill him again.

Alexio finished, eventually--his satisfied grunting stopped, Cas’s little hurt noises stopped. Dean had meant to give Cas as much privacy as possible, but he couldn’t help but whirl around at the sound of a body thudding to the floor: Cas, slumped in a bleeding heap where Alexio had dropped him. But he was still breathing, and that’s what mattered, and anyway Dean’s eyes couldn’t help but skirt up to Alexio’s cock, a goddamn battering ram stained with Cas’s blood.

Too much blood. Way too much blood.

“He needs help,” Dean choked out, even though he hadn’t meant to, even though he knew that openly caring about Cas was likely to get him hurt again, or worse. “I just mean . . . if he dies, you’ll have to feed from me every day again and I’m still on antibiotics and . . .”

Alexio glared Dean into silence right through the cage bars, anger clearly not yet sated, and growled, “On the table, Dean. Face-down.  _ Now _ .”

_ Fine, good, be mad at  _ me _ , not him. _

Although it’d be great if he weren’t mad at anyone. Not very likely, but still. It was early for dinner, but maybe Alexio was sick of Dean’s face right now and didn’t want to have to come downstairs again tonight. Or maybe it was Dean’s turn to be taught his place at the end of Alexio’s dick. 

But  _ maybe  _ Dean could use this to his advantage. Get Alexio out of here. Get Cas help. That meant playing along, though. So he got up without arguing and positioned himself on the table just as Alexio had asked. 

The inter-cell door opened. Closed with an aggressive clang that made Dean flinch a little. But he stayed down. Stayed still. Even managed to stay quiet right up until Alexio was strapping him down too rough and too tight.

But he had it now. He knew exactly how to play this. “Oh, so  _ you’re  _ mad at  _ me _ ?” Dean scoffed. “That’s rich.”

Alexio paused, then finished buckling the cuff around Dean’s left ankle. Said nothing.

“Cos the way I see it,” Dean said as Alexio started on the thigh strap, “you used me,  _ hurt  _ me, broke your promise to always treasure and protect me, and when I got upset about it, you responded by  _ cheating  _ on me because, I dunno, you didn’t break my heart enough today already?”

Alexio cinched the strap so tight it hurt. “I did  _ no such thing _ .  _ You  _ cheated on  _ me _ .”

“You really think so?” He let his voice go thick, heavy with fake tears. “You really think  _ that  _ little of me? That I’d betray your trust after everything you’ve given me?” 

The strap around his thighs loosened a little. Dean chanced a look over his shoulder at Alexio, who was stock still, sad, contemplative.  _ Perfect. _

“Listen, I’ll prove it to you. You can smell him on me? Then smell me. Go ahead.” With the strap loosened, he spread his legs in invitation. “If we did what you think we did, there’ll be no mistaking it, right?”

The strap loosened even more as Alexio let it go without buckling it. He held Dean’s gaze a long moment, like maybe he was expecting Dean to back down when Alexio called his bluff. But Dean just kept his face open, let all that fake hurt show, and waited.

Tried not to shudder too hard when Alexio gave in and shoved his nose right up the crack of Dean’s ass. Sniffed his hole, his taint, wedged his face down as far as he could to sniff Dean’s cock. 

Stood up. Took three small steps backward. 

“See?” Dean demanded. And if Alexio’s horrified expression was anything to go by, he did see.

He responded, in fact, with, “I’m  _ so sorry _ , Dean. I . . . I was wrong. You didn’t . . . he didn’t . . .” Alexio ducked his head, eyes to the floor. “I was too quick to anger. I didn’t let you explain, didn’t trust you. I’m ashamed. I would  _ never  _ have touched him if I . . .”

“If you’d believed me like you should’ve?” Dean snapped.

Alexio nodded his ducked head.

“Well, I ain’t the only one you need to apologize to, you know.” 

But that was pushing it too far, he could tell the second he finished saying it; Alexio’s head snapped up and his eyes narrowed and he said, “I will  _ not  _ apologize to a  _ hunter _ . He had it coming whether he touched you or not!”

Shit. “Whoa, whoa, easy, I know what his kind’s done to your kind, I get it, I do. I just meant he needs medical attention, is all. So you can keep feeding from him. Stitches. Antibiotics.”

Alexio was past guile; he didn’t even bother checking Dean’s face for the real cause of his concern. Just nodded his head, murmured, “You’re right. I’ve already betrayed your trust; it would only add insult to injury to let your respite from the feedings die.”

“Time to go visit you vet friend again?”  _ Please say yes I need you outta here please go. _

Alexio nodded again. “I’ll call him now. If I leave soon, I can be back by suppertime.” He stroked a hesitant hand across Dean’s left calf, undid the buckle at his ankle. “I was going to feed, but . . .”  _ But I don’t deserve you now.  _ Perfect. “Later. When I return, after he’s had his medicine.” Good. Good. Alexio unstrapped Dean’s right ankle. “I’ll tend him, then I’ll go.”

Dean bit his lip, gauged the likelihood of setting Alexio off again if he offered to tend Cas instead. Way too fucking high. Not worth the risk, no matter how awful the thought of Alexio patching the same damn wounds he’d inflicted.

He didn’t even dare to look Cas’s way as Alexio let himself into the other cell. Desperately wanted to, though, both to confirm for himself that Cas was being handled well, and to give Cas an anchor to the present. Because maybe rape really  _ wasn’t  _ mentally traumatic for Cas, but after the physical abuse he’d taken, it’d be easy for him to forget that it was over while Alexio was hurting him to help him.

Too risky, though. Alexio  _ couldn’t  _ think Dean cared or this whole tenuous web would come undone.

So he got up off the torture table, walked over to his sink and washed his face while Cas made miserable little moaning noises and Alexio shushed him impatiently and demanded he hold still. After a minute or so, Alexio said simply, “You’ll live,” at which point Dean dared to look their way.

“He need stitches?” he asked, forced-casual.

Alexio shrugged. “The tearing’s not that bad. He’ll hurt, but he’ll heal.” Dean was glad to hear it, but after seeing all that blood, the truth was he wouldn’t believe it until he saw for himself. Alexio stood to leave, but couldn’t quite resist adding, “It’s nothing he doesn’t deserve. Don’t share your food with him again; soft diet only until he’s better.”

So Alexio knew about the food-sharing, huh? Made Dean wonder what else he knew about. 

“Antibiotics, however, are a must, so I’ll be back in a few hours.” He paused near the door to Dean’s cage, wrapped a hesitant hand around a bar like maybe he wanted to touch Dean but knew he wasn’t entitled right now. “Is there anything you need before I go?”

Dean replied gently, because the fucker was doing what he wanted, getting Cas help, leaving them alone. “No thanks, Alexio.” 

He waited for Alexio to unlock the inter-cage door (and then hopefully forget to close it), but Alexio never did. Just turned to key himself out of Cas’s cage door, instead.

_ Fuck _ .

Dean sat down on his bed--his ass was still ragingly sore when he put weight on it, but whatever, wasn’t like he deserved any less after what Cas had just gone through because of him--and forced himself to watch the clock for the next fifteen minutes. Forced himself to ignore Cas, the little sounds of struggle and pain behind him as Cas scraped himself off the floor and collapsed onto his bed. Cas ignored him right back--hopefully trusting Dean to decide when it was safe for them to interact again, rather than too pissed to talk to him.

Probably the trust thing, though. Like, really pretty sure it was the trust thing. Even if he did deserve Cas’s anger.

The second that fifteenth minute ticked over, Dean glanced up at the camera and asked, “You still here? I just realized I never got my antibiotics.”

He’d realized that for some time now--was banking on it, in fact--but if Alexio was lurking, it was the only thing Dean could think of that would get him downstairs no matter how pissed or suspicious he might still be.

Dean waited a beat. Another one. No reply.

They were alone.  _ Good _ .

Dean rushed to his feet and grabbed the bag of IV supplies. “Hang on, Cas, I’ll be right there.” He found the needle, broke it out of its holder on the top in a way that left a little tongue of plastic sticking to it, then broke the needle in half. Tried not to worry too much about how he'd explain this to Alexio when the fucker found the pieces; if Alexio took it out of his hide, then so be it, but the door between their cages was only held shut with a regular old-fashioned lock, and no way that was gonna keep Dean out now. The clean half of the IV needle would make a perfectly serviceable rake, but the short length with the little plastic bit glued to the end left a lot to be desired as a tension wrench. Still, he’d done more with less, and for way less important reasons.

It was an agonizing couple minutes working the lock open, and he couldn’t help stealing glances at Cas every few seconds as he worked the pins by feel. Cas looked . . . a lot calmer than Dean was, truth be told, blinking tiredly at Dean through bruised eyes full of patience and love that Dean absolutely did not deserve.

At last he got the lock open--fucking  _ finally _ \--and rushed over to Cas’s side, dropped to his knees beside his bed and just . . . froze. Didn’t know what to do. If it was okay to touch Cas. How to help him--

Cas derailed his panic with a touch, clasping Dean’s good hand in his own and tugging it to his lips. “Thank you,” he murmured against Dean’s fingers, and Dean had to fight the visceral reaction to pull his hand away--not because he didn’t want Cas’s touch but because he had no right at all to Cas’s gratitude.

“What for?” he asked, and even managed not to sound too outraged about it.

“Sending Alexio away. Convincing him to help me. Giving up your medicine to pick that lock so you could be with me.” Cas smiled, winced--a cut on his lip had split back open. “You’re endlessly clever, Dean. It’s one of the many things I love about you.”

“Dude . . .”  _ Stop. Stop saying shit like that. He--  _ hurt  _ you because of me. _ But Cas didn’t wanna hear that and Dean wasn’t gonna say it just to make his  _ own  _ sorry ass feel better. Said instead, “How, uh. How are you?”

Cas’s grip tightened on Dean’s hand, and he winced again. “That was . . . remarkably unpleasant.” 

“Yeah,” Dean huffed on a surprised little laugh. “Yeah. I’m so sorry, Cas. Are you, uh.” He gestured with his bad hand at Cas’s ass, tucked under the blankets. “Still bleeding?”

“I don’t know. Everything feels . . .” His lips puckered up in disgust, nose scrunching. “ _ Wet _ .”

Ugh, god, Dean knew exactly what he meant. Couldn’t quite look him in the eye though when he asked, “You need help with . . . with cleaning up?”

Cas seemed to think on that a lot longer than normal, and Dean got it, he did--who the fuck wanted to be touched that intimately after a literal monster had forced himself on you? But Cas was in bad shape, might not be able to wash himself.

“I would like to be clean,” Cas began. Paused again, then added, soft and sad, “If I were still an angel . . .”

_ Ugh, just kill me _ . This time it was Dean who tugged their joined hands to his lips, kissed Cas’s knuckles. “I’m so sorry, Cas.”

“It’s not your fault.”

_ Yes, it is. _

“I expected the pain, but . . .” His face scrunched up again, not in disgust this time but in confusion. “I am . . . unaccustomed to feeling . . . so out of control of my own vessel. So . . . powerless.”

Well, shit, Dean didn’t need his heart anyway, so so what if it was shattering in a million pieces on the floor. “We’re gonna kill him,” he promised. “We ain’t gonna be powerless forever, you hear me?”

Cas nodded, but not like he meant it. Dean got that too--it was hard to think of anything  _ but  _ how weak and helpless you were while you were still lying in a puddle of blood and Alexio’s spunk. But that was all right--he’d believe it for the both of them until Cas was feeling better.

“I mean it, Cas--Alexio’s a dead man walking. Just gotta hang on until the cavalry comes, okay?”

This next nod was a little stronger, maybe at the reminder of Sam, maybe at Dean’s conviction. Whichever, didn’t matter as long as Cas believed it. “So until then, is there anything I can do? Tell me what you need.”

“I would ask you to hold me, but he may smell you on my sheets when he returns.”

Yeah, which was why Dean was kneeling beside the bed and not sitting on it. Sucked, but they had to be careful.

“I believe I’d like to shower.”

Dean wanted to shower too, and he’d only had to  _ listen  _ to the violation. “Yeah, yeah okay. Can you stand? Anything broken?”

“A rib or two, perhaps,” Cas gritted out as he levered himself to sitting, one hand wrapped tight around his bruising chest, the other hand crushing Dean’s fingers in a vice grip. “Help me?”

Dean stood and pulled Cas gently to his feet by their joined hands. Cas swayed for a second but then shook it off. Then surprised Dean by leaning right up against him, throwing both arms around him and burying his face in Dean’s shoulder.

“We’re showering anyway,” he said to Dean’s stiff, worried lack of response, and yeah, that was a good point, Alexio wouldn’t be able to smell them on each other if they washed, so yeah, he was gonna hug the fuck outta Cas while he had the chance.

Which was,  _ of course _ , the exact moment a voice boomed their names over the speakers.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves!* As always, I am behind on comments, but (as always) they are SO PRECIOUS to me and I will respond to everyone tomorrow :)

“ _ Sam _ ?” Dean and Cas whirled toward the nearest camera in unison. “Sammy, tell me that’s you.”

“Yeah, Dean. Yeah.” Sam’s voice, breathy with emotion, rang through the speakers, and Dean found tears springing to his eyes. 

He swiped them away with the back of his hand. “ _ Fuck  _ it’s good to hear your voice.” Cas was listing a little, so he slung an arm around his waist, careful of his bruised flank. “He gone, or did you kill him?”

“Gone. Are you okay? Why are--” A long, long pause, during which he’d obviously intended to ask  _ why are you naked  _ but then thought better of it. If he was at the mic, then he could see the camera feeds, see the blood on Cas’s thighs, the bruises on Dean’s hips. He’d spent over a century in a cage with Lucifer; he knew. “Listen, hang tight, I’m gonna get you outta there, okay? These locks are tricky, though. I just need to grab some gear from the trunk, I’ll be right back.”

Another long silence. Dean sat Cas down on the bed, then crossed into his own cell to strip his sheet and blanket. Sam’s unasked question had left him feeling  _ past  _ naked; he wrapped his sheet around him toga-style, offered the blanket to Cas so he could do the same. It already smelled like Cas anyway, so no new danger here.

Cas took it with a silent nod and slung it over his shoulders like a cape. Dean sat down beside him. 

He’d been trapped here for weeks, but this wait for Sam to fetch something from the car felt interminable. 

Maybe thirty seconds into the forever wait, Cas leaned in and pecked him on the cheek. “You did it,” he said. “You saved us.”

Cas was smiling, soft and subdued but clearly sincere, eyes crinkling. Dean wanted to share that happiness, he really did, but for one, this had been a team effort, and also, he really fucking wished Sam had come about two hours earlier, and three, this wasn’t over and they weren’t safe til Alexio was dead. If he came back while Sam was still upstairs . . .

Dean didn’t want to spoil Cas’s joy, though, so he turned his head to kiss Cas back--a soft press of lips to lips, no heat but plenty of affection--and said nothing. 

Wondered, half a second later, if Sam had seen. Wondered if he even cared if Sam had seen. Too tired to give a fuck. Besides, Sammy’d be cool. He loved Cas too, and he wanted Dean to be happy. And anyway it wasn’t like he didn’t have eyes; Dean might’ve been a damn blind fool for god knew how many years, but Sammy always had been the smart one.

“Still there?” Sam asked over the speakers a couple minutes later, and it struck Dean as a particularly stupid question considering they were on the cameras, but then, maybe Sam just didn’t know what else to say because, hello, welcome to Awkwardville, population: 3.

Which kind of broke Dean’s heart a little, so he bit back his snark and said, tired and gentle, “Yeah, Sammy.”

“Do you, uh . . .” A pause, and then, “Should I get the first aid kit?”

Dean looked to Cas, but Cas just looked back at him like it was his call. “It can wait, Sam. We’re mobile.”  _ More or less. _

“Don’t suppose you know about how much time we have?”

“Two hours on the safe side, three on the long side.” Their decoding equipment was at least a few years old, and Alexio’s electronic locks were new, but still . . .

Sam clearly thought the same. “Should be plenty of time. Hang tight, okay? I’m moving away from the microphone now, but if you need me, just holler; the speakers are loud enough to carry.”

Dean imagined Sam hovering by the mic, waiting for Dean to crack some witty joke, but he didn’t have the energy or the brainpower for it, so he just nodded and said, “See you soon, Sammy.” Sat there, still and silent beside an equally still and silent Cas, and tried to wait as patiently as John had taught him how to. 

Two minutes in, Cas slipped his hand into Dean’s. A full minute after that, Cas asked without turning his head, “Is this all right?”

Dean squeezed his fingers. He didn’t have the energy to posture about this, either. “‘Course it is, Cas.” Truth was, he  _ wanted  _ Sam to know. They’d kept way too damn many secrets from each other already. He was done with that. And this meant too much to him.

Besides, maybe Sam would be too happy for him--or too busy teasing the shit outta him--to hold onto his rightful fury when it came time to tell him about Zeke.

Cas dropped his head onto Dean’s shoulder. “I am . . . very much looking forward to returning home.”

The bunker. With Dean. A shivery warmth stole his breath away for a second at the thought of it being Cas’s home now too, of him  _ wanting  _ it to be home and knowing he was really, truly welcome there. “Yeah, me too.”

Too bad they couldn’t leave yet. He hadn’t mentioned it--no energy for that, either--but Cas and Sam would both realize he was right the second he explained.

Still, it felt like a damn good omen when the moment he’d finished that thought, the lock whirred and Sam opened the door, dressed in NY Power & Light coveralls and carrying a tool kit.

“Don’t touch anything you don’t have to,” Dean said before Sam could get any ideas about trying to hug them through the bars. God knew he  _ wanted  _ to hold the kid for like a solid six years, but . . . “Alexio’s got a nose like a bloodhound.”

“Uh.” Sam was frozen just inside the door, hand still on the knob, looking completely derailed. “Okay?”

Oh, yeah. He still thought they were leaving now.

Sam kept still, but his eyes started roving, no doubt cataloging the injuries on both of them--at least the ones on the parts of them sticking out of their bedcover wraps. Then Sam’s gaze landed on Dean and Cas’s joined hands, and his eyes went wide.

Dean was pretty proud of himself for not panicking and yanking his hand away. He just sat there, fingers calmly laced with Cas’s, and looked Sam straight in the face.

Those wide eyes met Dean’s, and his mouth gaped open, and Dean braced himself for god-knew-what, but then all Sam said was, “I owe Kevin twenty bucks.”

“Dude!”

“I mean I-- I didn’t mean--” Sam raked both hands through his hair, waved them in front of him. “I don’t even know why I took that bet, like, I  _ have eyes _ , you know?” He gestured awkwardly at Cas. “But he’d just moved out of the bunker and I . . .” 

Sam blinked. Dropped his hands. Probably just realized Dean and Cas were both glaring (trying not to laugh) and he was babbling. “I mean congratulations, you two. It’s about damn time; I’m really happy for you.” He smiled such a warm, genuine smile that Dean kind of wanted to cry, it’d been so long since he’d seen something that pure. Not to mention the way that someone else acknowledging this  _ thing  _ between them made it all feel so much more real, somehow. “Now tell me why you don’t want to go home.”

Dean . . . hadn’t actually said that yet. “Always were too damn smart for your own good, Sam.”

Sam shrugged, tried to hide a smile. “You wouldn’t care about this guy scenting us if you were planning to be gone when he came back. I still don’t even know what he  _ is _ . Help me out here.”

So Dean filled Sam in: what Alexio was, how he ate, where he’d come from, how insanely strong and dangerous he was, and--if the lore was right--how to kill him. “And that’s why we gotta do it here. Cos we  _ gotta  _ gank him, Sam, we can’t let him do this to anyone else ever again. And you wouldn’t be in that electrician’s getup if there weren’t neighbors around.”

Sam nodded. “There’s kids playing kickball in the street, actually.”

Jesus, the thought of this fucking  _ monster  _ living next to  _ children  _ . . . Dean shuddered. Cas must’ve felt it, because his fingers tightened around Dean’s, warm and grounding.

“Right. So. We can’t risk trying it upstairs. Best case: he’ll smell you, and he’ll know it’s a trap, and he’ll rabbit. Worst case: he comes inside, we actually manage to catch him off guard, and the fight spills out onto the lawn where all those civilians can see us trying to murder an actual literal  _ minotaur _ . And I stress  _ trying _ . If we don’t get him right away, all three of us together might not have a shot, you feel me?”

Sam looked dubious. “Dude, we’ve beaten demons, angels, even freaking  _ dragons _ . He’s been tapping you for weeks; you’re probably just not as fighting fit as you’re used to.”

“No,” Cas said, all big and bristling and, shit, was he actually defending Dean’s honor? That was . . . kinda hot. “I mean, yes, Dean is not, as you say, fighting fit, but he was when he took on Alexio the first time. The door you’re standing by, Sam? This creature ripped it from its hinges like paper.”

Sam turned back to study the door for a moment, and when he faced them again he looked suitably impressed. “All right. Then what do you suggest?”

“I gotta do it down here. He trusts me. You bring me the weapon, you clean up behind you, I’ll hide it under the bed and he won’t suspect a thing. Won’t even have to fight; I’ll get him while he’s sleeping.”

“He sleeps--”  _ down here?  _ Sam’s look of confusion morphed into absolute horror as he realized both what Dean was implying and how he’d stepped right in it. He swallowed. Nodded once, sharply, and pushed his hair off his face again. “I don’t like it.”

“Neither do I,” Cas said, squeezing Dean’s hand again, “but I fail to see a better plan.”

“I still don’t like it.” Not like Dean could blame the kid. He’d barely even gotten them back, and now they were staying, and Dean was risking his neck--and his ass--on a risky plan. Sam nodded one more time, more to himself, Dean thought, than to them. “But I’ll back your play. Dad’s got an old storage locker about half an hour from here; I’m like ninety percent sure he’s got a bronze sword in there. String is easy. Blessing from a princess might be tough, though--don’t have a lot of time.”

Dean quirked his first real smile in what felt like weeks. “Ah, but it just so happens we know a queen, don’t we.”

It took Sam a few seconds to make the connection. “You mean Charlie?”

“Yeah. There’s Moondoor chapters all over the country. There’s gotta be a princess around here somewhere.”

Sam’s forehead crinkled. “Will that . . . does that count?”

“Spells such as these are often metaphoric,” Cas said. “Moondoor may be a game, but within its context, a princess would hold true power and respect. I believe it would work.”

“Enough to stake both your lives on it?”

Good fucking question. “Look, we don’t even know if the blade  _ needs  _ to be blessed.”

“But if it does? I hate to say it, but maybe we should slow this down a little, let me find a real princess. Shouldn’t take more than a few days.”

Dean could endure a few more days down here--a few more rapes, a few more feedings, all worth it in the end to be certain of their safety, to be certain of Alexio’s death. But . . . “Cas doesn’t have a few days. Alexio’s a jealous son of a bitch, and the whole reason he’s even gone right now is because he--”  _ Breathe. Swallow. Don’t think about it too close.  _ “Because he hurt Cas so bad he had to go find antibiotics. We gotta go now, Sam.”

Sam chewed his bottom lip, darted a glance at Cas, nodded. “I don’t like it,” he said again.

“But you’ll back my play.”

More nodding. He met Dean’s eyes, then Cas’s, then Dean’s again. “Yeah. I better go, then. Don’t have a lot of time.”

“One more thing, Sam. How you gonna clean your scent out of the house?”

The tiniest hint of a sly grin broke through Sam’s expression of worried focus. “I have an idea. You’re not gonna like it, but it’ll work. Trust me.”

“You know we do, Sammy.”

Even still, they were gonna need a fucking miracle to pull this insane plan off.


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeeeeeeeeeeey I'm not dead! *finger guns*
> 
> (Seriously like holy crap guys I did not expect to need THREE MONTHS to get this update out but we are SO CLOSE to the end now and while I definitely cannot promise frequent updates with life how it is right now, I can at least promise I'll have this monster finished by Christmas, eh?)
> 
> Also thank you thank you THANK YOU to everyone who's been leaving kudos and especially comments in my hiatus! Literally every time someone left a comment, I got a spurt of energy and put some new words down on this story, so it's because of all of YOU that this chapter is wrapped. I will respond to them all eventually, but in the meanwhile, please know how much they mean to me and how much I love you all for taking the time to share your thoughts!

Sam left, and Dean got the feeling he wasn’t the only one who suddenly found their cages ten times smaller and more stifling than they’d been a second ago. Cas’s smile faded beneath a visible wash of exhaustion and pain, and with a grunt he half lowered himself, half collapsed, back to his bed. 

Dean wanted to let him sleep it off, he really, really did, but they had one absolutely vital task to complete before Sam came back.

“Come on, Cas, we gotta shower.”

Cas murmured something too soft and slurred for Dean to make out:  _ Don’t wanna _ , maybe, or  _ Later; sleep now _ . 

Dean cupped a hand around Cas’s shoulder. “I ain’t kidding, man. I know you’re beat, I get it, I do. But we’ve been all over each other”--heck, Cas was still wrapped in his blanket--“and we gotta survive Alexio’s nose long enough for me to cut it off his stupid face.” Cas made a sad little whining sound and then sighed, but didn’t move. Dean gave his shoulder a tug. “Five minutes, okay? You’ll feel way better, and you’ll be safe, and then you can sleep.”

Cas sighed again, louder this time--followed immediately by a grimace because no way taking that breath hadn’t twinged busted ribs--and then said, “Fine. Help me up.”

Showering went smoother than expected. Cas mostly washed himself while Dean stood awkwardly off to the side playing spotter, eyes fixed resolutely on Cas’s knees. Until Cas handed him the washcloth and asked, “My back?” and Dean did as asked, being as gentle as he could around the bruises forming in the shape of Alexio’s booted foot. He’d expected this to be weirder than it turned out to be--in fact, Cas leaned back  _ into  _ his touch, eyes closed and posture open and trusting--so Dean got over himself and stopped trying to  _ make  _ it weird.

He wanted to help Cas back to bed when they were done, but Cas shook his head. Which, yeah, he’d just spent five minutes scrubbing the smell of Dean  _ off  _ his skin; it’d be downright stupid to put it right back on there now, wouldn’t it? Didn’t make Dean want to help him, touch him, comfort him any less, but he kept his distance. Retrieved his blanket from Cas’s bed instead, and took a few steps back as Cas tucked himself in with his own bedcovers.

“Guess I should go wash up too, huh?”

Cas hummed a soft affirmative. Readjusted his head on his pillow to avoid putting pressure on the worst of the bruising, and closed his eyes.

“You sleep, buddy. I’ll keep watch until Sam comes back. Okay?”

But Cas didn’t answer. He was already out cold.

* * *

Waiting again. So fucking much  _ waiting _ . And worrying, because what if Sam wasn’t back before Alexio? What if Alexio came back  _ while Sam was here _ ? What if Sam couldn’t clean his scent out of the house? What if Alexio smelled fresh Cas on Dean’s blanket, or smelled Dean on Cas’s bed--he’d made the terrible, stupid mistake of sitting on it while waiting for Sam to unlock the doors. What if Alexio saw the broken needle and flipped before Dean could come up with some lie to explain? What if every-fucking-thing went absolutely, 100% right, but then Dean borked it up when trying to sever Alexio’s head with one non-dominant and one utterly-janky hand?

Fuck it, he needed a beer.

His was lying in a sticky puddle of shattered glass, courtesy of Alexio’s rage, but the second one was untouched. So was the chili and the pie. He didn’t much feel like eating, but knew he probably should. For one, Alexio wouldn’t take kindly to Dean snubbing the purpose of his three-hour drive. And two, he’d need every last bit of strength for what was coming.

He shuffled over to his little table, picked up the beer,  and saluted Cas’s sleeping form with it. No, scratch that--Cas’s _ blinking  _ form, because at some point he’d woken up and was now participating in his favorite pastime: staring at Dean. 

Dean resisted the urge to ask Cas how he was feeling--his angel had never much tolerated stupid questions--and instead held up the beer again. “You want it, buddy?”

“No thank you.”

Dean waved the beer at the takeout on the table. “Hungry?”

“No.”

He debated pushing--Cas needed to keep his strength up even more than Dean did right now--but it was pointless trying to out-stubborn the guy. Besides, Dean had already relocked the door between their cages, and sure he could pick it again, but Alexio might come back any second. And there was no way Cas would get out of bed for food he probably couldn’t even stomach.

So Dean just nodded and sat down and helped himself to chili and pie and blessedly awesome beer and watched the seconds tick by on the clock way too damn fast and way too damn slow at the same damn time, and fuck the universe anyway for letting that even be possible.

* * *

Ninety minutes since Sam had left.

One hundred.

One hundred and four.

At least Cas had gone back to sleep, and Dean had come up with a lie for the broken IV kit.

He glanced at the clock again. One hundred and six.

_ Shit. _

Made himself stop jiggling his leg and lie back in bed. Close his eyes. Not sleep--too dangerous--but rest, at least. Folded his bum hand across his stomach and tried flexing the fingers as minutely as possible within the confines of the brace.

_ Shit again.  _ Fucking  _ tears  _ sprang to his eyes as agony shot all the way up to his shoulder. How the fuck was he gonna wield that sword?

_ Bottom of the ninth, asshole, two men out and three men on. You’ll play through the fucking pain, that’s how. _

One hundred and twelve minutes. The beer and chili and pie churned in his stomach like a three-day-old gas station burrito. Where the fuck was Sam?

And what the fuck was that  _ smell _ ?

“Dean.” A soft shuffling from Cas’s bed, a hiss and a grunt, and then another rumbling, “Dean. Do you smell a skunk, or am I having a stroke?”

Did that asshole just make a  _ joke _ ? (God please be a joke.) Fucking morbid son of a bitch. But now that he mentioned it . . . Dean sniffed the air, and yeah, it was stronger now, unmistakable. Friggin gross. “Definitely a skunk, buddy.” And then it hit him like the damn stench: “S’gotta be Sam. He warned us we wouldn’t like how he planned to wipe his scent.”

Sure enough, a few seconds later, Sam’s voice rang over the speakers. “I’m back. Sorry about the smell, but . . . Anyway, I’ll be down in a sec.”

About ninety seconds later, the lock on the outer door whirred open, and in walked Sam, dressed hooded head to booted feet in one of those white protective CDC getups and carrying a duffel in his left hand. The stench that wafted in behind him made Dean gag for a second. Cas too, if the momentary coughing/moaning/retching noises from his bed were any indication.

Sam stopped just inside the doorway and waved. “Sorry about the smell,” he said again.

Dean just shrugged; he got it. “Nice suit, Mr. Wizard.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know I had to break into a lab at Cornell to steal this. Conveniently, that’s also where I got the skunk.”

“You  _ stole  _ a skunk? You  _ monster _ .”

Sam chuckled beneath his mask, which was exactly what Dean had been aiming for, so score one for him. “Anyway, I figured between the suit keeping my scent in and the skunk’s scent overpowering everything, your monster shouldn’t know I was here.”

My  _ monster, huh?  _ Dean pasted on a grin. “Always were the smart one, Sammy. Now,” he nodded his chin toward the duffel, “what’d you bring me?”

Sam unzipped the duffel with thickly gloved fingers, careful not to let the bag touch the ground. He reached in and pulled out one of Dean’s old flannels, wrapped tightly around something stiff about two feet long and three inches wide: presumably a bronze sword. “Here.” Dean levered himself out of bed as Sam walked it over to the cage, met him by the door as he carefully passed it through the bars without touching them.

The shirt, to put it kindly,  _ reeked _ . “I been gone for  _ weeks  _ and you haven’t done the damn laundry yet?”

Sam chuckled again. “Be glad I didn’t. A bull can smell  _ water  _ from three miles away. You really think he won’t smell the metal that can kill him if it isn’t being hidden by the smell of  _ you _ ? You keep this bundled up nice and tight, tuck this under your mattress until you can use it, and hopefully he won’t know it’s there until it’s too late.”

“S’it blessed?”

Sam nodded. “Called Charlie on the way to the storage locker. She put me in touch with a Mordor princess, also at Cornell, who thought this whole thing was part of the RPG and was more than happy to help. Got the string wrapped around it, too. Just keep in mind that bronze is a soft metal; it doesn’t hold a very sharp edge, and you might have some trouble when you hit bone, but hopefully it’s heavy enough to get the job done.”

Great. Just great. Busted dominant hand  _ and  _ shitty substandard weapon. 

“Speaking of getting the job done, Charlie dug up some lore while I was driving, and from what she can tell, you need to stab him through the heart, then cut his head off.” Sam reached into the duffel again and pulled out another sword, this one wrapped in a white button-down dress shirt, then walked over to the other cage. “Brought one for Cas, too.” Before Dean had done more than take a breath to argue, Sam added, “Just in case, okay? You don’t go in without backup, right?  _ You  _ taught me that.”

Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam-- _ don’t quote me to me, asshole _ \--but conceded with a nod.

Cas had to use the cage bars as handgrips to sit himself up, and Dean tried very hard to ignore how rough the guy was as he made his slow, stoic way to his feet and then to his cage door to take the sword from Sam. He thanked Sam solemnly, then started shuffling back to his bed just as slowly.

“Cas, wait, I uh . . .” Cas turned back as Sam fished in the duffel again, retrieving a familiar little prescription bottle. He rattled it once, held it through the cage bars. “The blue ones are Percocet, the pink ones are Dilaudid.”

Cas gave the bottle his patented little squint-n-tilt, but didn’t reach for Sam’s extended hand.

Both would probably knock him on his ass for a few hours, so might as well go with the strongest stuff. And anyway, that was fine. Good, even. Dean didn’t need backup--not like Cas could unlock the inter-cell door, anyway--and Cas didn’t need to lie there and suffer. “Take two of the pink ones, Cas. It’ll kill the pain.”

Cas tilt-n-squinted a good few seconds longer, but then reached for the bottle and fumbled with the cap. Apparently child-proof meant angel-proof, because he couldn’t figure out how to get the lid off, especially with his sword tucked under one arm, until Sam took pity on him and said, “Squeeze the sides and push down as you twist.”

Cas kinda looked like he just wanted to  _ smite  _ the damn thing, but he did as instructed and got it open. He fished out two pink pills and dry swallowed them. Then he held the bottle out toward Dean and said, “Now you.”

Shit. He should’ve seen that coming.

He sighed, nearly fumbled his sword. “I can’t, Cas.”

Cas took a deliberate step forward, arm still extended, and demanded, “Why not? Your pain is greater than mine, and you’ve had to cope with it much longer.”

He grimaced at the assessing look Sam shot him, that dirty-diaper scowl that screamed  _ What aren’t you telling me _ , and turned to face Cas. “That’s right--I’ve been  _ coping _ . I take those, they’ll fuck my focus. I’ll get loopy. I’ll fall asleep. I gotta be sharp right now, Cas.”

Cas’s eyes darkened, mouth drawing into a tight frown. “Will that happen to me as well?”

Dean sighed again. He was too damn tired for Cas’s anger. “Yeah, Cas.”

Except then the anger fled for hurt, and that was like six thousand times worse. “Dean.” For a moment, that was all it seemed he could manage to say, but Dean heard the rest loud and clear:  _ I trusted you. How could you. I can’t have your back if I’m unconscious. _

“It’s okay, Cas. Just rest. You can’t get into my cage anyway; there’s nothing you can do if shit goes sideways.”

Cas’s lower lip trembled, and his eyes were definitely not supposed to be that shiny. “I would not  _ sleep  _ through your death, Dean.”

_ Fuck _ . Right in the fucking  _ heart _ . “I’m not-- He’s not gonna--” Except, yeah, he totally  _ would  _ kill Dean if Dean tried to kill him and missed. Dean tucked his sword under his right arm, scrubbed his left hand through his hair. “That ain’t gonna happen, Cas, okay?” He walked up to the bars between their cages, got as close to Cas as he could. “I just got to have you; I ain’t gonna be stupid enough to die before we get to make out in the back seat of the Impala, okay?”

Cas’s lips twitched ever so slightly, but in anger or amusement Dean couldn’t tell. But then his eyes softened, and the tension bled out of him, and he shuffled over to the bars opposite Dean and only  _ just  _ stopped himself from reaching out far enough to touch. God knew Dean wanted it as bad as Cas did, but . . . yeah. Scents. 

“You are my heart, Dean Winchester. I am trusting you to care for it.”

Dean felt his own eyes starting to get way too shiny--the dude was a total fucking sap, but god, the things it  _ did  _ to Dean--when Sam reasserted his existence by coughing awkwardly from his side of the cage bars.

“Yeah, uh. So.” Fucking cockblocker. Had been for  _ years _ , now that Dean thought about it, always walking in right when Dean and Cas were maybe actually  _ getting  _ somewhere with talking about their feelings and shit. “I uh. Brought one last thing.”

This time when he reached into the duffel, he pulled out a much smaller bundle, about the size of a cell phone and wrapped in a pair of Dean’s old boxers, then waved it at Dean.

“Gross, dude.”

“Believe me, I would not be touching this if I weren’t wearing a hazmat suit.”

Dean pried himself from Cas’s space to take the bundle from Sam. Opened it up to find a battery pack and a tiny little microphone. The beer and chili and pie took another violent spin around his stomach. “A wire?”

Sam shrugged. “Cas isn’t the only one who wants to make sure you have backup.”

“But Sam . . .” Bad enough that Sam  _ thought  _ he knew what happened down here.  _ No way  _ could Dean let him  _ listen  _ as that shit went down.

“No buts. Dad had four swords; the other two are in the car. If things go sideways, I can be down here inside of two minutes.”

“If things go sideways, I’ll be  _ dead  _ inside of two minutes!”

Sam hooked the duffel strap around his elbow and folded his arms. “And Cas? Can he kill you both that fast?”

“I--”  _ Fuck _ . “Fine. But you gotta promise. One, we will never,  _ ever  _ speak of whatever you hear.  _ Ever.  _ And two, no matter  _ what  _ you hear, you don’t come down unless I call the code word.”

Sam nodded. “I promise.”

“All right. Now get out of here before he comes back.”

Sam just stood there for a moment, looking like he wanted to reach out and touch Dean as badly as Dean wanted to reach out and touch him, touch Cas. But then he nodded again, once, sharply, and said, “Good luck, big brother.”

Dean nodded back, forced a cocky grin. “See you soon, little brother.”

And then Sam was gone, and Dean and Cas each carefully tucked their sword between their mattress and their bed frame, and Dean slipped the wire down beside it. Climbed into bed, watched as Cas did the same, passing out the moment his bruised head hit his pillow despite the pervasive stench of skunk in the air.

But Dean couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t afford to, couldn’t even if he’d wanted to. Because Alexio would be home any minute now, and that’d be the real test of their plan. And he couldn’t stop thinking about one of the first lessons John had ever taught him: 

_Here’s what you’ve gotta remember about plans, son._ _Everyone has one until they get punched in the face._


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wahey! Much quicker update this time :D And I'm already well into the following chapter, too, with many special thanks to Hazeldomain and Rivkat for providing ideas and motivation and helping me work through a particularly sticky plot point.
> 
> As always, I am perpetually behind on replying to comments, but as always, they are my inspiration and lifeblood and I love each and every one of them and every person who leaves them <3 Thank you for your patience, my darlings!

Alexio returned eighty-four excruciating minutes after Sam had left. Didn’t even bother to announce himself, and Dean was wound so tight that the whirring of the lock startled him half out of bed. He sat up, heart pounding, and checked quickly on Cas--out cold from the drugs still--before turning to face the door.

“Why is there a  _ skunk  _ in my  _ house _ ?” Alexio demanded as he stomped through the door, voice so loud and brows so creased that Dean half expected his face to morph.

“Well hello to you too,” Dean drawled. Alexio just grunted at him, so Dean pushed his luck. Sam was listening, after all--wouldn’t do to let the kid hear how far he’d fallen. “And dude, I dunno if you’ve noticed, but I’m kinda stuck down here? Don’t even have any windows--couldn’t let a skunk in if I wanted to. Which--” he pointed accusingly at Alexio “--I did not. Smelling this for hours ain't exactly my idea of a good time.”

Alexio was still on the warpath, as if Dean could’ve  _ possibly  _ had anything to do with this. He took three large steps toward Dean’s cage and started keying the door open.

Dean swallowed, stood. Took an insanely dangerous chance, even by his standards: folded his arms across his chest and grumbled, “The damn thing probably got in while you were leaving. Wouldn’t be the first time today you didn’t bother to pay attention before acting.”

To Dean’s  _ enormous  _ relief, Alexio froze mid-keypunch, the scowl dropping off his face in favor of consternation.

And hey, Dean couldn’t blame the guy for being pissy--he’d probably gotten stuck in an assload of traffic (that’d explain both his lateness and his attitude) and then come home to the worst stench in the history of ever--but he was glad to see Alexio remembering which one of them was in the doghouse.

“I’m so sorry, Dean, I . . .” He pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “You’re right, I’m just . . . It’s been a very long day. I’m so sorry you’ve had to endure this stench for so long. I’ll . . . see what I can do. I’ll be back.”

He was gone a long time. Like, a  _ long  _ time. Long enough for Dean to get antsy, to wonder if Alexio had found Sam staking out the place, or  _ smelled  _ Sam beneath the skunk stench, which . . . was it his imagination or was it starting to dissipate? Maybe he’d just gone half numb to it, the way you do to persistent sounds or low-level chronic pain.

But yeah, Sam was probably fine, right? No way Alexio could smell anything over this. He was just being thorough about clean-up was all.

Right?

Dean glanced at the clock. Somehow it’d gotten late. Alexio had been upstairs dealing with the skunk for 102 minutes. Which, yeah, no, Dean had to check. 

“Hey, Alexio?” he called toward the camera over the door. “Still there?” 

Long pause. Long,  _ silent  _ pause. Dean held his breath; not like he hadn’t been doing that since Sam’s stripey little stink bomb anyway. 

“Come on, don’t be like that. Talk to me, man.”  _ I’m freaking out. Say something. Let me know you’re not outside killing my brother. _

_ Finally  _ the speaker crackled. “My apologies, Dean. I’m almost done, I’ll be down in a moment.”

_ Thank fuck _ . “‘Kay,” Dean made himself say instead, like nothing was any big deal, like it was just another totally normal day in Alexio’s basement.

He sat down on his bed-- _ on top of the sword I’m gonna slice your fucking face off with, motherfucker-- _ closed his eyes for a second and just  _ breathed _ . Stole a glance at Cas, who was still, thankfully, sleeping the sleep of the deeply drugged.

Waited.

Again.

But that was okay. Dean used the time to quiet his mind, soothe his nerves, resolutely  _ not  _ think about the thousands of ways this could all go sideways, the thousands of things Sam was gonna hear even if everything went as well as it possibly could. The thousands of things Dean would need to  _ do _ .

Jesus christ he was  _ shit  _ at not thinking about things.

Well, at least the air was clearing up. The familiar smell of Fabreeze was currently blowing through the vents in aggressive fashion, along with . . . was that hydrogen peroxide and baking soda he was catching a whiff of? Well, whatever it was, it was working. Might be days before all traces of skunk were gone, but he planned to be torching this place by morning, so what the fuck did he care.

The door lock whirred again--Alexio’s “moment” had turned into fourteen minutes--and this time when he entered the room he was in a much better mood. He was also carrying a little paper bag labeled Hudson Branch Animal Clinic. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said again, shutting the outer door behind him and then moving to open Dean’s cage door. “The poor thing was hiding under the kitchen table. I managed to get it outside without any further incident, and then scrubbed down all the surfaces it sprayed.”

He beamed and preened like some caveman with a deer slung over his shoulders, until Dean finally realized he was waiting for praise and said, “S’good work, Alexio, thank you. Smells way better in here already.” Which was thankfully not a lie. He nodded toward the bag in Alexio’s hand as Alexio stepped into his cage. “Those for Cas?”

“Yes.” Alexio took a few steps toward Dean-- _ don’t smell the sword don’t smell the sword please god don’t smell the sword _ \--then faltered, eyes scanning the floor. “I’ve made a terrible mess, I’m sorry. I’ll clean, I promise.” His mournful gaze slid from the broken beer bottle to the (now very) broken IV kit on the floor by Dean’s bed, and he rushed forward to pick it up. “What happened here?”

No suspicion--and no hint that he’d detected the weapon--thank fuck. Not even as he dropped the vet bag on the bed, then stooped down and carefully gathered the bits of needle and shattered antibiotic vials that Dean had bashed quite thoroughly with a book about an hour ago. “You stepped on it, before . . .” Dean dropped his gaze, waited a long beat as Alexio placed each piece, down to the smallest sliver, in the saline-soaked plastic shopping bag. “When you were, um. You know.  _ Angry _ .”

Score for Dean--clearly a little calculated fear was never the wrong move with this asshole, because Alexio winced, eyes hooded and mouth drawn, and Dean heard not even a hint of suspicion when he said “I don’t remember.” He held up a chunk of glass with half a prescription label still on it, sighed with the weight of all his centuries of life, and stared at the glass some more. 

After about five seconds, though, he visibly shook himself from his fog of guilt--lifted his head, threw the glass shard in the plastic bag, stood. “This was meant to be your last dose anyway. I’m sure it’ll be fine if we switch to oral now.”

A little shiver of  _ real  _ fear then, at the associations of that word coming out of that mouth. But Dean’s mind was just being stupid--he knew damn well Alexio meant oral  _ meds _ . “Yeah, okay.” And then, because he had a fucking  _ job  _ to do, had to get Alexio as relaxed and sleepy and off-guard as possible, he stood from the bed, laid his uninjured hand atop Alexio’s massive forearm, and looked up to meet his eyes. “Hey, it’s okay. Really. I’m good.  _ We’re  _ good. I ain’t mad, I promise.”

Alexio held his gaze with the kind of love and gratitude that could make a guy forget he was a prisoner if he wasn’t careful. He cupped Dean’s entire face with his free hand, stroked his thumb across Dean’s cheekbone. “You’re too kind, my precious human. Far too kind. Whatever beneath the eyes of the gods did I do to deserve you?”

And then, of course, he leaned in for a kiss.

Dean’s brain shorted out for a sec in a puce-green burst of disgust, and  _ of course  _ the first thought to come back online was  _ the fucking wire. Sam listening.  _ Alexio’s mouth was on his and Alexio’s tongue was working its way straight down Dean’s throat and really, thank fuck for Alexio’s hand on the back of his neck stopping him from jerking away because otherwise he would’ve ruined the whole damn thing.

_ Sam is listening. _

But he got his shit together and kissed Alexio back anyway. Swallowed back the  _ ugh gross  _ with an audible groan, and so what if it sounded like a moan of pleasure, so what if Sam thought he was so fucked in the head he was getting off on sucking face with captor, so what if it was easy to pretend now, so much easier than at the beginning,  _ so  _ easy in fact that he kind of had to wonder if maybe . . .

No.  _ No _ . He fucking hated every last fucking  _ molecule  _ of this shitshow, and he wasn’t a fucking coward. He’d just gotten better lately at not getting dead down here, that was all.

Even if he was gonna have to scrub his mouth out with Everclear for like a solid week when this was over.

Right about the time Dean thought for sure he’d do a straight-up swoon from lack of oxygen, Alexio pulled back. Dean gasped in a noisy breath, and had his hand halfway to his mouth to wipe the slime away before he caught himself and slid it around Alexio’s waist instead. But Alexio hadn’t noticed his near-slip, was too busy cupping Dean’s face again--this time in both hands, so big his fingers met in the back--and staring so long and hard at Dean’s features that he kinda wondered if Alexio was trying to count his freckles or some shit.

“Soon, beloved,” Alexio whispered, then leaned in to brush a thankfully closed-mouthed kiss across Dean’s lips. “Duties first, I’m afraid.” He steered Dean back to the bed, and Dean’s heart thumped triple-time while he waited for Alexio to catch a whiff of the bronze . . . 

“Sit,” Alexio insisted, complete with gentle downward pressure on Dean’s shoulders. No sniffing the bed, thank fuck. No sniffing the air, even. Not like Dean could blame him what with all that  _ eau de skunk  _ still floating beneath the Febreeze. “Rest. It’s late--would you like some dinner?”

“You eating too?” he asked, casual as could be.

Some days, Dean missed Alexio’s once-perpetual smile. “I’m afraid I must, yes.”

“Then maybe after.” At Alexio’s sharp look, he added, “I ate all that chili and pie. I’m good. Really.”

“All right. In that case, I’ll be right back.”

This time he was true to his word. He was only gone a couple minutes, and he came back with a broom and dustpan and mop, and antibiotics for Dean to swallow and a glass of milk for him to swallow them with. Dean sat over the sword and watched in silence as Alexio swept up the remnants of the glass, mopped the beer and the saline solution and any residual glass shards--“Can’t be too careful with your bare feet, my precious human”--and then walked his supplies back upstairs. When he returned again, he stopped beside Dean for another not-nearly-quick-enough kiss-- _ ugh, gross _ \--that Dean made himself return with gusto, then pulled away and unlocked the inter-cage door.

“Hey,” Dean said, a little too quick and nervous. Alexio turned toward him, eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly. “Uh, I mean.” He gestured at the bed. Did  _ not  _ think of that fucking wire. “We were kinda in the middle of something here. What are you bothering with him for?”

Alexio smiled and shook the little white bag in his hand, which Dean had somehow completely forgotten about between molestations. “Duty first, beloved, remember? I’ll be right back.”

Cas was still out cold, and Alexio did not wake him gently. Just gripped his shoulder, shook hard, and boomed, “Hunter. Get up.”

Cas flailed, winced, sucked in a gasping breath and winced again, curling in on his busted ribs. Even from his own cage, Dean could see how unfocused his eyes were, but whether from the pain or the pain meds, he had no idea.

Alexio tossed the bag at him, It bounced off his chest and landed on the bed. “Take a pill now. One every night for five days. The cream is three times a day. Get it up deep--pretend it’s Dean’s cock if that’s what you need, I don’t care, but if I catch you watching him while you touch yourself . . .”

The warning was crystal fucking clear, but Cas blinked up at Alexio in utter confusion:  _ Why would I want to look at him while I touch myself?  _ Which, wow, Dean hadn’t expected that to hurt as much as it did, and really, it wasn’t even like he could  _ blame  _ the guy what with how often Cas had seen Dean throw himself at Alexio, or let Alexio bring him to orgasm. Besides, the poor guy hadn’t been human for long and was no doubt still working through all those new emotions he kept feeling, one of which  _ had  _ to be disgust by now. So what if Dean really  _ was _ Cas’s heart--whatever the fuck that meant anyway? Didn’t mean Cas wanted him like  _ that _ after the endless series of weaknesses he’d seen Dean succumb to.

_ No. He wanted to touch me. We joked about making out on Baby’s back seat. Stop being so fucking paranoid, Dean. It’s just the drugs making him groggy. _

Dean tried way too hard to believe that while Alexio, giving in to the fact that Cas wasn’t getting up on his own right now, heaved the world’s most dramatic sigh (like, seriously, this even put Cas’s full-body eye-rolls to shame) and fetched him a paper cup of water.

By the time Alexio was done retrieving a pill for Cas and shoving it in his mouth and holding the cup while Cas half-drank, half-spilled it all down the front of himself, he was so annoyed that Dean almost dared to hope he’d lost interest in sex.

But only almost, because let’s be real here, the fucking sky could fall and Alexio would still try to stick his dick in  _ something _ . The only real question was how angrily he’d go about it. And right now wasn’t boding well for soft and gentle.

Of course, Dean had other problems to worry about first. Like the clanging of the inter-cage door as Alexio returned to Dean’s cell and closed it behind him. Like the way he gestured, regretful but firm, at the torture table with an “If you please, Dean. I’ll be quick, I promise.” Like the goddamn fucking wire hiding beneath his mattress, and what Sam would hear through it when Alexio tapped Dean. 

And, worst of all, what stupid shit Sam might do in the heat of the moment that would almost certainly end with all three of them dead.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yoooooooooooooo look who's still alive, happy Native Genocide Day! (Er, though in the more-whitewashed spirit of the holiday, I hope everyone who celebrates had a wonderful time with their friends and family, and I am so thankful to all of you being so patient waiting for me to finish this monster and also to all of you who leave comments and kudos I love you all!)
> 
> So this is SO late because I went to NolaCon (AMAZING OMG) and then had cataract surgeries in both eyes a week apart in early Nov, and it's made me very light sensitive and headachy and farsighted so my screen time has been very limited. But I'm on the mend and starting to feel much better so, porn!
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to omgbubblesomg, WHO IS A TERRIBLE PERSON WHO I HATE (U KNOW WHAT U DID BUBBLES) but she made me finish it and also she sends me pictures of baby kangaroos and she's writing me the most delicious charity fic so I suppose she's not ALL bad ;-p

“You _ sure  _ you gotta eat tonight?” Dean asked, even as he walked himself over to the table and hopped up on its hard surface. The cold shrivelled his balls. 

“I’m afraid so.” Alexio made his own approach to the table, but he, of course, didn’t climb on top of it.

Dean swung his legs and pouted, though his fingers were wrapped white-knuckled around the table’s edge. He was probably fooling exactly no one, including himself. “It’s just, you know, you been on the road  _ all day  _ for me, and I was hoping we could skip right to the bits where I thank you. Profusely. With my mouth, but not just with my words, if you know what I mean.” 

Ugh, cheesiest pickup line ever. Sam was probably out there somewhere vacillating between abject horror at Dean’s earnest seduction and embarrassed laughter at how bad it was. But whatever--the fewer things Alexio forced inside Dean tonight, the stronger he’d be for the face-stabbing, and that was all that mattered.

Alexio’s breath hitched, and he licked his lips. Next thing Dean knew, they were kissing again, though he hadn’t quite seen Alexio move. Lips locked the whole time, Alexio manhandled Dean onto his back, leapt up on the table and straddled Dean’s thighs as he plumbed every last crevice of Dean’s mouth with his disgusting tongue.

Dean’s hands came up to Alexio’s shoulders, more a hold for dear life than a loving caress, and once again his groan of distress sounded enough like a moan of pleasure to fool all listening ears.

_ Especially Sam’s, god damn it. _

But hey, it seemed like maybe they’d be skipping the feeding after all, not that Dean wanted to be fucked again on the torture table, but whatever. They’d make it to the bed eventually, and then to the stabby-stab in Alexio’s sleep.

Except . . . no. Alexio pulled back, as dazed and breathless as Dean but for entirely different reasons, and licked his lips again. He looked a little chagrined. Slowly eased off the table--a task clearly complicated by the massive hard-on straining those poor brave seams of his pants. “Apologies,” he said, as if Dean were the one regretting they’d broken apart. “But if I’m to have the strength to apologize the whole night through for my earlier behaviors, I must eat first.”

Damn it. Well, if he couldn’t talk Alexio out of it, he at least needed to warn Sam not to come running. “I aint gonna  _ want  _ you to apologize all night long after you hurt me like that. I mean, I don’t judge, but, to me? Screaming is  _ not  _ sexy.”

Alexio grimaced, but started strapping Dean down anyway. “You’ll be fine. You always are.”

_ You mean like that time you punched a million holes in my hand and the infection it caused almost killed me?  _ “I know,” Dean said instead, mostly for Sam’s benefit, and also not to pick a fight he couldn’t win, but maybe a little for his own sake too. Alexio was buckling down his bad wrist, and he was being so so careful but still it  _ hurt _ . “Just a mood-killer is all.”

Alexio flashed him a filthy smile, though it looked a little pasted on. “I assure you I’ll work quite diligently to compensate.” Dean didn’t reply as Alexio finished with the straps. Closed his eyes and breathed deep, steady and even like Dad had taught him, as Alexio pulled supplies from his pockets and arranged them on the slide-out tray. 

Of course Dean jerked anyway when he felt that first cold touch of the iodine wipe on his skin--low on the outside of his hip this time, more on his leg, really. Maybe it was just the position that’d surprised him, or maybe it’d been too long since he’d endured this last and he’d lost his tolerance.

“I’m tapping the head of the femur tonight.” Alexio must’ve seen him jump, seen his breathing speed up. “I have a pattern, so I don’t tap the same area too many times per season. Reduces the risk of fractures.”

Yay?

“I’m afraid this area is more sensitive than the pelvis. The cavity isn’t quite as large, so the pressure is more intense.”

Great. He was already gonna be having trouble stopping Sam from picturing bloody murder with a regular hip tap. And this was gonna be  _ worse _ ?

“Also you may experience some soreness while standing or walking for a few days. But,” he paused to rip open the second iodine packet, clean the area again, “I plan to keep you in bed for quite some time, so I don’t foresee that being an issue.”

Dean could  _ hear  _ the leering smirk in the fucker’s voice, couldn’t decide which was worse: the promise of days-long rape, or the fact that he was about to be given  _ yet another  _ handicap when it came time for killing. First a bad hand, now a bad leg? He was starting to feel like the fucking Black Knight.  _ It’s just a flesh wound! _

_ Yeah. Just a fucking flesh wound, so don’t be a fucking baby who gets everyone killed cos you couldn’t keep your mouth shut.  _

Dean hung onto that as Alexio freed the needle and stylus from their sterile packaging, as he guided that massive needle through the thick muscle of Dean’s outer thigh. Dean’s whole leg locked up, right along with the rest of him, muscles and teeth clenched against a terrible pain--and Alexio hadn’t even started piercing the bone yet.

_ Don’t scream don’t scream don’t scream . . .  _

_ Sammy laughing in that field of fireworks. Cas getting slapped by a stripper. Watching the game with Sam on Christmas, buzzed on more rum than eggnog, after ganking those pagan gods. All three of them piled on Sam’s bed, binge-watching  _ Game of Thrones _. Cas kissing him. _

_ Cas  _ kissing  _ him. _

Dean’s lips tingled. He  _ almost  _ forgot Sam was listening. 

He didn’t scream.

The needle scraped bone, clawed its way down, live wire on raw nerve. Dean panted through clenched teeth, every muscle locked, good fist balled, resolutely focused on the image behind his clamped-shut eyes.  _ Cas. Kissing him. Him kissing back. Gentle hands on his face, in his hair. Bodies pressed close.  _

He didn’t scream.

Pressure easing for a moment as the needle broke through to the marrow cavity. Still couldn’t unlock the muscles in his leg, but the rest of him softened, let him breathe. He gasped in a lungful of air, blinked back tears. Could even think clearly enough for a moment to take pride in his silence.

Alexio screwed on the syringe. Dean sucked in another breath, pressed his good palm flat against the the table, let the cold of the steel seep in and ground him. He could do this one last time. Sam was outside, and Cas  _ loved him _ . He could do this.

“You’re doing so well tonight, beloved.” The praise dripped from Alexio’s tongue like honey, but it was poison, poison. Yanked Dean from that small safe place in his head where he could handle this kind of pain without wailing like a baby. He shivered, leg muscles catching on the needle, breath hitching audibly. His janked hand hurt almost as much as the extraction point; he must’ve tried clenching it without thinking. “I’m so proud of you.”  _ Shut up shut up shut  _ up _.  _ “Be strong now; I’m beginning the extraction.”

He tried, but the truth was that he’d never been as strong as he should’ve been, and he  _ certainly  _ wasn’t now. 

A bright burst of light behind his clenched eyelids as Alexio drew back the syringe. Then blackness, but not nothing, no--when he came back to himself he was screaming, straining at his bindings, a wild animal cornered and hurt and panicking. Not even fighting, just . . . lashing out blind.

When it was over--when he slumped, breathless and sweaty and nauseous, against the table--he let his heavy eyelids close again and braced for the inevitable. 

For Sam to come rushing down here and get himself killed. 

“All done now,” Alexio soothed, smoothing antibiotic cream over the puncture with one hand and rubbing Dean’s shin with the other. “You were very brave, my precious human. You did so well.”

Ha. The best he could say about how “well” he’d done was that he hadn’t begged. Hadn’t exposed to Sam just  _ how  _ far he’d fallen. At least, he didn’t think so. It was all kind of fuzzy, blackness and noise and agony and not much else. 

All of which reignited as Alexio taped on a pressure bandage, but he stayed quiet this time. Laid there trembling and sweating and swallowing back nausea, afraid to even breathe lest he jar his leg or hand.

Alexio covered Dean with a blanket, unstrapped his legs and propped a pillow under his feet, murmuring soft praise the entire time. It occurred to Dean that he was shocky. Which, just fucking great. He was already at a massive disadvantage with the upcoming face-stabbing. And now he’d gone and aggravated his hand,  _ and  _ his whole fucking system was in shutdown? 

But hey, at least Sam hadn’t come running to his death. Not yet, anyway. So Dean let himself drift for a bit as Alexio ate with disgusting relish--making it very clear how much he’d missed his favorite meal. Dean tried to ignore it, let his body and his brain take the break they so clearly needed.

Too bad Alexio didn’t get the leave-Dean-the-fuck-alone-for-a-bit memo. The second he’d finished his meal, he came back over to the torture table, stroked Dean’s hair and then Dean’s face and chest. Dean glared up at him through one squinty eye and nearly startled at how close Alexio’s face was to his own, how intense Alexio’s stare was. 

How  _ hungry _ .

Dean barely had the energy to  _ ugh, gross  _ inside his own head. He let his eye close. Mumbled, “I don’t feel good.”

God knew why the fuck he’d even bothered;  _ of course  _ Alexio responded with, “I’ll make you feel better than you’ve ever known.” He stroked Dean’s cheek with the back of one massive hand, and Dean started turning his head away before he remembered that he needed to lure Alexio, get him as tired and off-guard as possible so he could end the fucker. 

It took everything he had left to turn his face into Alexio’s hand, press a kiss to those hairy knuckles. “Thank you,” he murmured against Alexio’s skin. “Just, gimme ten? Gotta catch my breath.”

Alexio’s eyes were bright and eager as he leaned in to kiss Dean’s forehead. “Of course, beloved. Let me help you.”

Alexio undid the straps around Dean’s hips and shoulders, then his wrists, saving the worst for last. Dean sucked in a sharp, noisy breath as the cuff above the brace pulled tight, then loosened, jiggling his right hand and wrist. Tried and failed to swallow a whimper.

Alexio tsked, handed Dean two Tylenol and a dixie cup of water and then supported Dean’s head just enough to help him swallow them without choking. Put down the empty cup and massaged Dean’s arm above the elbow. Dean was loath to admit, even to himself, how good it felt. Or how rough it felt a second later as Alexio lifted his forearm in both hands, as slow and careful as if it were a house of cards, and laid it across Dean’s stomach. 

Alexio tsked again, brow furrowed sharply as he took in first Dean’s braced hand, then his sweaty face. “I thought you were improving.”

“Think I tried to make a fist,” Dean gritted out. Then yelped as Alexio slid hands beneath his shoulders and knees and lifted him off the table, blanket and all, like a sleeping child. He carried Dean over to the bed, laid him down and arranged pillows and blankets until he was bundled up nice and warm, feet propped on a pillow again. 

Except for the fires raging in his hip and hand, he was cozy and comfortable enough to sleep. Almost  _ was  _ asleep. Right up until Alexio, who’d somehow managed to get naked without even alerting Dean to the fact that he was undressing, drew the covers back and crawled into bed beside him. Turned on his side, threw an arm around Dean’s middle, and hugged him so tight and close it could only be called aggro-snuggling. Didn’t seem to mind Dean’s clammy skin at all. Dean’s clammy skin was being just as big an inconsiderate asshole, gleefully soaking up Alexio’s body heat without bothering to see if Dean’s brain approved. Which it did not. At all.

“You’re shivering,” Alexio chided, like it was  _ Dean’s  _ fault Alexio had hurt him so bad his whole system was revolting. He somehow managed to hug Dean tighter. “Are you cold?”

Dean shook his head, then remembered he was supposed to be playing Alexio up. He wormed a little deeper into Alexio’s embrace and said, “Not anymore. You’re so nice and warm.” 

_ Ugh.  _ Great, now Dean was grossing  _ himself  _ out.

Alexio pressed a lingering kiss to Dean’s temple, stroked Dean’s flank with the hand resting across his waist. “How’s the pain?”

What was the right answer to that? Discounting the fact that Sam was listening, did Alexio want to play nurse and make Dean feel better, or did the fucker want to be able to pretend that he  _ hadn’t  _ just basically tortured Dean into shock?

He didn’t have the brainpower for this right now. 

Fuck it--the truth it was. It’d make Alexio underestimate him, anyway. “Worse than it’s been in awhile,” he admitted.  _ Ignore me, Sam. Everything’s fine. _

Another kiss to his temple, then one to his cheek, his neck, his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, beloved.” The hand across Dean’s waist pulled back to stroke his belly, then slid down, down. “Let me help you.”

“Y--” Dean’s voice cracked. He blinked up at the ceiling, cleared his throat. Even managed to cant his hips up into Alexio’s hand, which was currently wandering past where his pubic hair began. “Yeah, okay.”

Alexio danced his fingers through Dean’s pubes, curled them over Dean’s soft cock. Dean dared a glance into Cas’s cell, and thank fuck his angel was still out cold. Sam was still listening, sure, but it’s not like baby bro could  _ see  _ down here, so all Dean had to do was stay quiet and maybe, just maybe, Sam wouldn’t realize what was happening.

At least staying quiet was easy this time. Alexio propped himself up on one elbow and started stroking Dean’s cock in a loose fist, but it didn’t really feel good at all, let alone good enough to moan about. He was still coming down from the agony of the extraction, and his body was too focused on finding equilibrium to deal with arousal.

Alexio kept trying, though. Licked his palm, firmed his grip, leaned in to tongue at Dean’s nipple as he stroked. Tried stroking faster, slower, twisting his wrist. Added some teeth along with the tongue at Dean’s nipple, which under very different circumstances was a bulletproof way to rev Dean’s engine. But here and now, with this rapist fuck, his cock barely twitched. 

For which he was grateful. Until he wasn’t--until he realized that he needed to play along here. For one, Alexio would get suspicious if Dean couldn’t come for him, and the fucker was already suspicious enough. Given prior events, it wouldn’t be a big leap for him to assume the actual truth: that Dean didn’t  _ want  _ to get it up for Alexio because he loved Cas. (Plus the whole violent-rapist thing, Cas-love notwithstanding.) Not to mention that Alexio was clearly determined to take his pleasure tonight one way or the other, and if Dean could perform, then there was at least a small chance that Alexio’s pleasure might primarily involve Dean’s pleasure, rather than ripping Dean open.

_ Think sexy thoughts think sexy thoughts think sexy thoughts. _

Great, now he was just thinking of the Simpsons, and Barney in a bikini humming the  _ I Dream of Jeannie  _ theme song.

Would it be too weird to laugh right now?

Jesus, he was losing his fucking mind.

And Alexio was losing his patience, because he let go of Dean’s dick with a put-out sigh, lifted his mouth off Dean’s oversensitized nipple, and said, “Clearly I’ll have to try harder.” 

But he was smiling softly, so at least he wasn’t mad. He locked eyes with Dean, and that smile turned slowly wolfish, and a second later he was disappearing beneath the blankets.

Dean shivered as hot breath gusted over his dick and balls, and then again as his entire cock was sucked into Alexio’s mouth, tongue pressing firm and broad to the underside as a hand cupped his balls. Alexio massaged Dean’s nuts, sucked hard at Dean’s dick, laved at him like a lollipop, used firm lips and the tiniest hint of teeth--as if he’d read Dean somehow, knew he liked that touch of pain with his pleasure--until Dean’s body gave in to the inevitable and he chubbed up in Alexio’s mouth.

All seven inches of him, still in Alexio’s mouth. Well, more like half down his throat, and Alexio was humming now, satisfied little noises that vibrated straight through Dean’s dick, still sucking and licking and nipping and  _ holy shit was he ever amazing at this _ .

Dean might’ve let slip one teeny, tiny little moan before clamping his teeth shut. He pressed a fist to his mouth and squeezed his eyes closed, then remembered all over again that he was supposed to be into this and made himself rest a hand on top of Alexio’s bobbing head.

His hair was irritatingly soft. Dean petted at it awkwardly a few times--Alexio hummed in pleased surprise around Dean’s cock again--before deciding that was probably enough and letting his hand still.

Because, here’s the thing, Dean was a vocal son of a bitch in bed. And considering he was currently getting a blowjob that’d been perfected over the course of  _ millennia _ , what microscopic bits of spare concentration he had were all going to keeping him quiet.

He was so damn proud of himself for not making a single, solitary peep when he came that he almost forgot to hate himself for coming so hard down his rapist’s throat. 

Almost.


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *rises from the dead again like a motherfucking Winchester*
> 
> I hope all my fellow MOTs had a Happy Hannukkah--here is an only-one-day-late present for you all! (You other folks can read it too ;-p)
> 
> A HUGE thanks to rivkat for her crucial assistance with this chapter (and the next one too). The ideas for these particular bits of filth were largely hers, and she also helped me solve a tricky problem that I was stuck on for a very long time, so thank you, rivka, for giving me even more reasons to adore you <3
> 
> Also as always lately I am forever behind on replying to comments but please know that I read each and every one of them and I love all of them and all of you so much for leaving them and they inspire me to keep going, so thank you! <3 <3 <3

When Alexio popped out from beneath the covers, he wasn’t smiling. Which was super weird considering what he’d just made Dean do--what, in his head, he’d just gifted to Dean, and with such tremendous skill.

But no. He was, in fact, kind of scowling a little as he sat beside Dean, one leg curled up on the bed, hip touching Dean’s side. Dean almost flinched from the look on his face alone as Alexio reached out to brush fingertips across Dean’s mouth. “Did I not please you?” he asked.

Uh oh. Resolutely  _ not  _ thinking of the pieces Sam was surely putting together, Dean parted his lips and gave Alexio’s fingers the same treatment Alexio had just given his dick--both to buy himself some time to psych up to the right answer, and to try to demonstrate to Alexio just how pleased he really was (pretending to be). 

Alexio’s eyes widened and his pupils narrowed. The scowl melted from his face, but still he pulled his fingers back a few seconds later and prompted, “Dean?”

“Oh, you pleased me all right.” God damn it, Sam was gonna wanna  _ talk  _ about this, no two ways around it. But what choice did he have? “How about you flip over and lemme return the favor?”

But something about his face or his voice or his body language must’ve given him away, because Alexio’s scowl came back, this time twice as deep. “You’re lying,” Alexio said. Actually, more rumbled than said, which did not bode well  _ at all _ .

“Dude.” Dean waved toward his crotch. What the fuck, he was all-in already anyway, and Cas was (hopefully) still out cold, and Sam could plug his damn ears if he was too delicate to handle it. “My dick was down your throat. Did you really not notice how hard I came?” His face burned hot, but he pushed on. “I’m still riding the aftershocks!”

Alexio took Dean’s face in both hands, made him look at him. “Your body may be, yes, but your mind is elsewhere.”

Shit. “Dude. No.” He reached out with his good hand, stroked Alexio’s scowling face. Alexio’s expression didn’t fade, but he did tip his cheek into Dean’s hand, so Dean took that as a win. Of course, that meant he actually had to  _ follow this through  _ to its natural conclusion, which was . . .  _ Ugh, no, don’t even think about it. Just  _ do  _ it.  _ “Here, look.” He propped himself on one elbow, a perfect mirror to Alexio’s pose except for the part where Dean was trembling with exhaustion. Still, he nudged Alexio’s hip with his knee, said, “Lemme show you. Go on, roll over.” Alexio kept scowling, so he nudged him again, licked his lips, all but batted his eyelashes. “Come on, man. On your back. Please?”

“If you insist,” Alexio sighed. He took several long, exaggerated moments to get comfortable, smooshing the pillow with his head like twelve times before he seemed ready to admit he was settled. 

Fucker probably thought it was funny. It wasn’t. No matter how hard Dean tried, he couldn’t quite keep the edge out of his voice as he asked, “You done?” Because every time his mind so much as strayed toward the outer edge of the vicinity of thinking about what he was about to do to prove his devotion . . .

“Yes,” Alexio said, tucking his hands behind his head and smiling contentedly at last, blankets gathered at his waist, over-muscled torso bared. “I believe I am.” He turned to look Dean dead in the eye, smile turning sly, seductive. “But I sense you are not done with  _ me _ .”

Ruse working. Hooray? Dean made himself return the grin--god knew it wasn’t the first time he’d ever had to smile like that at some naked dude he found utterly repulsive, so at least he had practice--and said, “Damn straight,  _ erastes _ .” He leaned in on his shaking arm, planted a trail of kisses across Alexio’s chest. Lingered a few extra moments to hide his face as he worked through a sudden, breathless panic about  _ Sam listening _ . Sam, who spoke fluent Latin and passable Greek, who fucking  _ knew _ , no doubt, what an  _ erastes  _ was. 

But Dean didn’t have time for that shit. Had to stick to the script if he wanted to Black Widow this bitch. So he choked all that horror back down and didn’t think at all about Sam knowing what this shit meant--nope, not one bit--when he said, “It’s time for your  _ eromenos  _ to show you what he’s learned.”

Alexio said nothing to that, but the way his lips curled with eager hunger, the way his eyes shone with warmth and pride and, yeah, even love, Dean knew he’d hit that particular fugly nail dead on the head. Which . . .  _ Good omen. _

And that made it way, way easier for him to sit up, straddle Alexio’s thighs, kiss his way down Alexio’s chest and across his hips (no puncture wounds to get in the way on  _ him _ ), take the plunge and nibble all the way down to Alexio’s cock. 

He’d just sucked in a long, steadying breath in preparation for attempting to fit that monster in his mouth when Alexio slid fingers under his chin and lifted his head until their eyes met.

And Jesus fuck, the  _ heat  _ in his gaze could’ve singed the eyebrows clear off Dean’s face. “Forget that.”  _ Happily _ . “I want you to ride me.”

_ Shit _ . “Uh.” His eyes darted toward Cas and his thoughts darted toward Sam eavesdropping from the relative safety of the front seat of his car, and Alexio was watching him so close there was  _ no way  _ he didn’t notice. 

Sure enough, his eyes narrowed, and his fingers tightened on Dean’s chin.  _ Shit again. _ “Yeah, uh, no, I’d love to, but uh.” He waved ambiguously at himself. “I’m just, you know, kinda sore and tired. Rain check?”

Alexio growled--a human sound, but still plenty scary enough--grabbed Dean by the hips, and rolled them both over. Before Dean could even manage a squeak of protest, he was flat on his back, hand and hip screaming, and Alexio was straddling his thighs. “Of course you are. It’s too soon after your last tap.”

_ Oh thank god _ . 

“You relax, beloved. Rest.” 

_ Oh thank god on a fucking  _ tortilla _.  _

Alexio moved from straddling Dean to sitting beside him, and Dean dared to let himself breathe-- 

“Gather your energy while I prepare you.”

“ _ What _ ?” Dean blurted before he even realized he’d meant to speak. Shit.  _ Shit _ . “I mean, um. This was supposed to be about  _ you _ . Not you payin’ attention to me twice in a row.”

Alexio grinned down at Dean as he eased Dean’s legs apart. Dean didn’t fight, managed that much conscious control over his actions, at least. “I assure you, this is very much for me as well. You know how I enjoy giving you pleasure, Dean.”

“Yeah,” Dean choked out, panic creeping in again-- _ Sam’s listening Sam’s listening Sam’s listening Sam’s _ \--

Somehow Alexio had settled back between Dean’s legs without him noticing until a tongue licked down the crack of his parted asscheeks. He startled, yelped, darted another uncontrollable glance to Cas and then up at the ceiling, as if he could somehow see Sam through all those layers of walls and floor. Fortunately, this time, Alexio was too busy to notice Dean’s wandering eyes, what with his face buried between Dean’s legs and his tongue--

“ _ Wait _ .” Because, let’s face it, he was no spring chicken anymore, and he’d just come so hard he’d seen stars like three minutes ago, and he’d  _ never  _ been able to tolerate being touched--like,  _ at all _ \--after even a middling orgasm.

Well, except that one time (okay, like, three times) Rhonda Hurley had tied him down and made him take it, but she’d been, you know,  _ hot _ , and he’d  _ wanted  _ her, and he’d been desperate to please her, and--

And the point was that was a totally fucking different situation than  _ this _ , and he was  _ way  _ too sensitive for Alexio’s tongue to be worming its way up his ass like it was. “Alexio,  _ wait _ !”

In a shocking turn of events for all involved-- _ eyeroll _ \--Alexio did not wait.

Did the exact opposite, in fact, and wiggled a finger up beside his tongue, honing in unerringly,  _ of course _ , on Dean’s prostate.

“ _ Alexio _ ,” Dean whined, shoving at the fucker’s head with his good hand. “M’too sensitive, don’t--”

“Nonsense.” The tongue had disappeared so Alexio could speak, but not the finger, which was  _ relentlessly  _ rubbing circles against Dean’s prostate. “I wouldn’t even have known you’d come before if you hadn’t done it in my mouth. Silent as you were, surely I failed you, and you’re simply too kind to tell me.” 

Kind,  _ hah _ . Dean had been called a lot of things in his life, but never quite  _ that _ . Alexio drew his finger out, pushed back in with two, both of which immediately set back to work torturing him to death. He whimpered, gasped, couldn’t help trying to squirm away. This  _ hurt  _ in the slimiest, most intimate, most disgusting dirtybadwrong way possible, and it was getting more and more intense by the second. 

“Aaah,” Alexio purred. “ _ Now  _ you make noise.  _ Now  _ I please you. I see that this--” he sucked Dean’s cock into his mouth, swirled his tongue around the head, and Dean practically jackknifed off the bed in his desperation to get away “--is no longer enough for you. No. You need to be filled, don’t you? My tongue. My fingers. My  _ cock _ . Deep inside you--you’ve grown to crave it, just as I promised you one day would before our very first time together.”

Great, what the fuck was he supposed to do now? If he denied it, Alexio wouldn’t trust him, but if he agreed, he’d literally never be able to look his brother in the eye again. Like,  _ literally _ , one of them would have to gouge their eyes out for the sake of all non-mortifying future interaction. Or maybe he could run away. Or  _ Sam _ could run away, god knew it wouldn’t be the first--

Okay, wow, that was shitty and unfair, but how the fuck was he supposed to think rationally about  _ anything  _ when Alexio’s fingers were, like, trying to polish a mirror goddamn finish into the single most sensitive bundle of nerves in the history of space and time?

“Look at you,” Alexio rumbled--a smugly self-satisfied sound that made Dean want to punch him in the nuts before he stabbed him the face. “Reduced to mere moans and whimpers. No words from my clever human? None at all?”

“ _ Please _ ,” Dean gasped as Alexio sucked Dean’s cock into his mouth again, went from two fingers to three. It took a solid minute or four for Dean to realize why that was the wrong thing to say--that Alexio heard  _ please more  _ instead of  _ please stop _ , but by then he really had lost the ability to form words to correct the fucker, could barely even form them in his own head. This had all been just as torturous when Rhonda had done it but somehow infinitely hotter, and now he had no magic safeword to escape it, and yeah, he wasn’t tied down but he might as well have been for all the strength in Alexio’s single pinning hand and all the weakness in Dean’s own flesh.

But that wasn’t even the worst of it. No, the worst of it was when it  _ stopped  _ hurting. When the wires uncrossed and all that sensation zinging through his nerves at a billion miles an hour actually began to feel  _ good _ . 

Which was right around when,  _ thank fuck _ , his dick (which was  _ hard _ , fucking traitor) slipped out of Alexio’s mouth with a wet pop, and the fingers in his ass at last went still. 

Alexio peered up at him from between his legs, brows furrowed and lips puckered. “You’ve gone quiet again.”

Huh, he supposed he had. Which on the one hand was weird, because he was pretty sure his heart had never beaten harder than it was beating right now, and he was breathing just as hard to match. But on the other hand, this particular misery was of the silent self-hatey type, rather than the uncontrollable-sounds-of-distress type. 

Alexio’s fingers slid out of Dean’s ass with a lube-wet squelch.  _ Gross _ . “I see even four fingers isn’t enough for you anymore.”  _ Four _ ? He’d had  _ four  _ shoved up there and Dean’s body had  _ liked  _ it? 

Alexio, oblivious to Dean’s existential crisis, seized him by the shoulders and rolled them both over again-- _ ow, hip _ !--so that Alexio was on his back and Dean was straddling him, janked hand cradled to his chest and good hand scrabbling on Alexio’s stomach for balance. “Then let me give you what you crave, beloved.”

No.  _ No _ . Look, sure, yeah, he knew this was all a part of the plan-- _ his  _ plan--and he’d been totally cool with it, like, an hour ago, but now it was taking everything in him not to bolt, not to ruin this for everyone, and he didn’t even know  _ why _ , what the fuck his major malfunction was when he knew damn well this was the only way outta here, the only way to keep Cas safe, the only--

The world went all tilty again for a second, and agony spiked in his freshly tapped hip fit to make him shout, and then the head of Alexio’s cock was nudging at his asshole and he realized the fucker had straight-up manhandled him into position, lifted him bodily by the hips onto that porn-caricature dick and was now lowering him down none too slowly or gently and--

“ _ Aah! _ ” Because fuck Alexio (and gravity) anyway, and it fucking hurt.

“That’s it, Dean,” Alexio urged, panting with his eagerness, hands gentling on Dean’s hips but not letting go, not letting Dean decide the pace of things even though he was the one who’d insisted on Dean being on top. “Let me hear you, beloved.”

Dean clamped his mouth shut. If he let it open again, he’d say something he was gonna regret. He’d ruin  _ everything _ because he was too fucking weak to see the fucking plan through to the end.

Alexio planted his feet and slammed up into Dean once, twice, a third time, as if that could somehow coax happy noises from Dean instead of, at best, surprised grunts of pain. Somehow Toro over there seemed surprised when that didn’t turn out the way he wanted. And then his eyes fell on Dean’s dick, now totally limp, and his hands dropped from Dean’s hips as his face fell.

“You’re distracted again.”

Shit. “No.” He stroked Alexio’s chest with the hand he was using for balance. “No, I--”

Alexio grabbed his limp cock and gave it a painful squeeze--clear punctuation to his prior statement. But he wasn’t being cruel, just . . . sulky. “Am I truly so uninspiring to you? Have I failed you so deeply?”

“No, Alexio! No! It’s not . . .” This was . . . a very strange conversation to be having with Alexio’s tall-can cock buried balls deep up his ass. (Okay,  _ any  _ conversation was strange to be having with Alexio’s tall-can cock buried balls deep up his ass.) “You’re great, really. It’s just.” He waved at his dick as if it’d betrayed him, which for fucking once it actually hadn’t. “First penetration, you know how it is.”

“You’re  _ lying  _ again,” Alexio growled. And then he let Dean know just how thoroughly he’d ruined everything by knocking him off his lap with a single swiping arm that bore way too close a resemblance to a swinging steel beam. 

Dean crashed sideways into the cage bars with a startled, pained shout and threw both hands up to . . . what? Protect his head? Laughable.

But then he realized Alexio hadn’t risen to pursue him. Was, in fact, lying listless and miserable on his back, which meant he hadn’t meant to lash out here. Which meant Dean had options.

His first instinct was to get up, back away, play th e angry lover, but moving hurt and what little strength he had left he needed to hang onto for his upcoming ride on the Murder Express. He settled for glaring, instead. “My hip and hand are killing me. Only reason I could get it up in the first place was cos you’re so damn amazing at this, which, thank you, by the way, that was awesome. But you don’t get to be pissed at me for being distracted by the pain  _ you  _ caused.”

“Or maybe--” Alexio rumbled, sitting up--no, scratch that,  _ looming over Dean _ \--with envious ease. He thrust an accusing finger through the bars of the divider, toward Cas, “Maybe you were distracted by  _ him _ .”

“What? No!” Shit.  _ Shit _ . That was totally not a totally fake-sounding nervous laugh he’d just made, right? “Come on, man, you know me better than that!” But he’d always been terrible at hiding the truth once he’d been called out on his lies, and he was pretty sure tonight was no exception. 

Which was why it came as no surprise when Alexio flung himself out of bed, grabbed his keys from his discarded pants, and stalked to the door dividing Dean’s cage from Cas’s. Dean scrambled after him, but he was shaking now from weakness  _ and  _ terror, and Alexio just knocked him away again as thoughtlessly as he had a minute earlier. By the time Dean found his feet, the inter-cell door was firmly closed and Alexio was at Cas’s bedside.

“Alexio, wait!” But it was pointless, he knew it was pointless even as he said it, he’d fucking  _ blown it  _ and ruined everything and now Cas was gonna pay the price and--

And, yup, Alexio was slapping Cas awake, once, twice, hard blows to the face. “ _ Hey! _ ” Dean shouted, even as Alexio yelled, “Get up, hunter!”

Cas gasped awake, and  _ ohthankfuck  _ Alexio stopped slapping him once his eyes opened. Dean dragged his sorry ass over to the bars dividing their cages, clung tight with his good hand and pressed his face to a gap and tried to  _ will  _ Alexio away from Cas. Called his name when that didn’t work, again and again, but Alexio was too busy yelling at Cas to pay attention to Dean.

“You think he cares about you, hunter? You think he  _ wants  _ you?” Alexio thrust one finger back toward Dean without ever taking his eyes off Cas, whose own eyes were sharp now, though Dean could see the confusion and fear in them from across the room. “He is mine, and you are not worthy to be the dirt beneath his shoes!” Alexio spat right in Cas’s face--actually fucking  _ spat _ \--then grabbed Cas by the arm and dragged him upright. “I’ll show you once and for all, you filthy  _ chalkiditis _ , he is  _ mine _ !”

Cas scrabbled at his pillow as Alexio pulled him from the bed--reflex, maybe, since obviously the friggin pillow wasn’t anchored and wouldn’t do him any good--then went limp and stopped fighting. His fists were balled tight but Alexio’s claws weren’t out and he didn’t seem to be hurting Cas beyond the whole dragging-his-beaten-ass-across-the-floor situation, so Dean stepped back and tried to convince his thrashing heart to chill the fuck out unless and until there was a  _ real  _ reason to start panicking like that. Because Dean had a pretty good idea of what Alexio was planning here, and no one was gonna get hurt for real, so he could live with it.

And more importantly, Cas would live  _ through  _ it. Dean just had to play his part and  _ not fuck up again _ .

But he could do that. For Cas, he could do absolutely anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY BUBBLES NOW U OWE ME TWO (2) NEW CHAPTERS


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I'm on a roll :) Thanks once more to Rivkat, as this chapter's filth (and really, this is WALL-TO-WALL FILTH) is heavily inspired by her too.

Alexio unlocked the intercage door in a huff, dragged Cas through it in a huff, and then pulled him by the arm over to Dean’s bed in a huff. “Sit,” he ordered--pointlessly, since he went ahead and manhandled Cas onto the foot of the bed before giving him a chance to obey. Then he pointed a finger at him and ordered, “ _ Don’t. Move. _ ”

Heart still hammering, Dean put on his best casually-amused face, crossed his arms, and sauntered over to them both, desperately trying to ignore the loose, sloppy slide of lube inside him and the pain spiking in his hip as he walked. “Look man, I don’t judge, but I ain’t into this.” Because he could do this--he could play his part in Alexio’s little show--but not if Alexio made Cas do anything more than watch. Cas watching (and Sam listening--don’t forget that gem) would be bad enough.

Alexio, still in a huff, seized Dean by the shoulders, manhandled him onto the head of the bed--as far away from Cas as possible while still sharing the furniture--and then sat down between them. He turned his scowling face to Dean, his back to Cas like the guy posed less than no threat, and said, “He is here to  _ watch _ .”

Dean grinned, leaned in, and dropped a kiss on the tip of Alexio’s nose. “Ooh, kinky. I  _ like  _ that.” 

Never mind that Dean had freaked, vocally, over Cas watching them before--Alexio bought it hook, line, and sinker. He growled, seized Dean by the shoulders again, and once more Dean found his world going tilty. Once more he found himself straddling Alexio when the movement stopped. And once more, Alexio grabbed Dean’s hips to lift him onto his rock-hard cock.

Except this time Dean wasn’t having it. Because he could do this, he could play along, but not if Alexio took what last little bit of control he had. He’d panic then. He’d ruin everything. “Hey!” he barked, and swatted at Alexio’s arms. “You’re hurting me. You wanna direct this show,  _ you  _ get on top.”

_ Just in case your mental picture wasn’t clear enough, Sammy. _

Alexio drew his hands back, dismay creasing his face. “Your hip . . . I’m so sorry, beloved.”

Dean plucked one of Alexio’s hands off the bed and placed it on his thigh, well below the fresh tap wound but close enough to his groin to keep Alexio’s mind firmly on him rather than Cas. “S’okay. Now where were we?”

Alexio brought his other hand up to Dean’s other thigh, squeezed them both. “I believe you were showing that filthy hunter who you truly love.  _ Hey. _ ” His eyes were over Dean’s shoulder now--so much for keeping his mind off Cas. “You.  _ Watch _ . Get it through your thick skull once and for all before I’m forced to crack it open and suck out the marrow.”

Cas didn’t verbally reply, but Dean could feel his solemn gaze like an itch between his shoulder blades, and that must’ve been good enough for Alexio, because his attention returned to Dean. He reached out again, this time being considerate enough to grab Dean by the waist instead of the hips in his attempts to shove Dean onto his cock.

“Wait!” Dean said for what felt like the hundredth time tonight. And much to his shock, Alexio actually did, relaxing his grip and turning expectant, impatient eyes to his. “It’s just that I, um.” Dean waved to himself, felt his face heat right out to the tips of his ears. How to say  _ I got all tense cos I thought you were gonna violently rape me and kill my angel  _ without, you know,  _ saying  _ that? Or saying any version of that that’d make him need to gouge out Sam’s eardrums along with his eyes? “I got all, uh . . . I mean, I need to . . .”

You know what? Fuck it. He  _ couldn’t  _ say it, so he just levered up onto his knees, reached around behind himself, and stuck a finger up his ass.

Could  _ hair  _ blush too? Cos he was pretty sure he was blushing right to the ends of his too-long fucking hair. 

But hey, Alexio’s mouth had dropped open and his damn tongue was practically lolling out and his wide eyes were superglued to where Dean’s hand disappeared behind him, never mind that he couldn’t actually see what Dean was doing back there. He  _ knew _ , and apparently that was more than enough to drive him wild.

Wasn’t doing much for Dean except making him wish the floor would open him up and swallow him whole. It wasn’t like he’d never fingered himself before--fuck, after Rhonda had introduced him to the wonders of his prostate, he’d experimented with plenty more than just his own hand--but he’d never done it in front of a goddamn audience. In front of  _ Cas _ .

And he could feel Cas’s eyes on his hand as surely as he could see Alexio’s.

Still, better to die of mortification than stupidity. Because if he let Alexio fuck him now, he’d bleed all over everything, and he wouldn’t have the strength to kill him tonight.

So one finger became two, became three, became four, all while Alexio jacked Dean’s cock to hardness and Cas’s unseen gaze weighed down Dean’s arm. He knew four fingers wouldn’t be enough to make this painless, but no way was he gonna try to  _ fist  _ himself, and at least it’d stop Alexio from ripping him up. And--small mercies?--at least Sam couldn’t see or hear what he was doing. To himself. With his own damn hand. Of his own free will. Because gouging eyes and ears out were one thing, but literal brain bleach was probably a step too far.

_ Don’t think about that.  _

Too late, though. It must’ve shown on his face, or maybe his erection flagged, because Alexio grabbed his arm and growled, “Enough.” It wasn’t, but whatever, out of time was out of time. At least Dean got to smear his gross lubey fingers all over Alexio’s stomach hair while pretending to lean on him for balance. Out of functioning hands, Alexio had to hold his own cock up for Dean to sit on. And Alexio, miracle of miracles, let Dean do that at his own pace. Which was, even he could admit,  _ glacial _ . Any faster and he wouldn’t be able to keep the pain off his face, let alone pretend at pleasure.

His erection was  _ definitely  _ flagging now, but Alexio kept stroking it with a loose, lube-slippery fist, groaning long and low as Dean eased himself down that battering ram between his legs. He’d managed to take maybe half of it when Alexio’s hand froze and his gaze flicked over Dean’s shoulder again and he growled, “Come here.”

“Really can’t get any closer, dude,” Dean said on a nervous chuckle, but then he felt the foot of the bed move and realized that Alexio had been talking to Cas. Which, no, oh no, just . . .  _ no _ . 

He must’ve frozen, because Alexio growled, “Keep going,” and this time he was  _ definitely  _ talking to Dean, what with the way his eyes were boring straight through Dean’s skull. 

Dean made himself slide another millimeter down Alexio’s cock--which sucked like ten times worse than it had a second ago because he was super goddamn tense all over again. He stared hard at Alexio’s hairy chest, lest he make the mistake of looking at Cas and knocking this whole sad house of cards down. But there was no avoiding the sight of Cas in his peripheral vision, and tracking movement in dangerous situations was so deeply ingrained in him that he just sort of . . . darted his eyes a little. Took in the whole scene in half a heartbeat: Cas, standing stiffly at the head of the bed, fists clenched and eyes forcefully turned to where Alexio’s cock was disappearing inside Dean, courtesy of Alexio’s bruising grip on Cas’s face. 

And, oh yeah, Cas was  _ hard _ .

Not that Dean blamed him--bodies did what bodies did, and his was so damn  _ new  _ to him without his grace to control it--but Alexio . . .

“Hey,” Dean gritted out, flicking one hairy nipple. He forced himself to switch from bearing down on Alexio’s cock to squeezing instead, tightening the muscles of his ass around the bit inside him. He was proud to say he heard not even a hint of the pain that’d caused in his voice as he said, “Hands on  _ me  _ or I’m gonna get jealous.”

Alexio gasped and turned his eyes back to Dean, tore his hand from Cas’s face to cup Dean’s instead. Alexio’s thumb stroked softly across Dean’s cheekbone, and while there was no mistaking the devotion in his eyes, there was also no mistaking the possessive fury.

“Go on,  _ eromenos, _ ” Alexio said. “Show him who your  _ erastes  _ is. Show him who you crave, who you love, who you cannot live without.  _ Show him _ .”

Well, in the most literal sense he supposed he  _ couldn’t  _ live without Alexio right now, considering he’d starve to death down here, but whatever. Truth didn’t matter for shit right now, and Cas would see through the ruse anyway as long as Dean did right and kept him alive. 

Right?

Yeah. Probably, anyway. Dean leaned in, planted his good hand on Alexio’s chest, went for a kiss. Mortifying as fuck, and also disgusting, but it kept Alexio’s mind on  _ him _ , and bought him some time to try to relax his muscles, to somehow get used to the entire fucking beer can’s worth of dick already shoved up inside him and the second half he’d have to make space for.

He felt Cas’s eyes on him. On where his lips met Alexio’s, where Alexio’s tongue was shoving so far back he wanted to gag. Then to where their bodies met, to Dean’s asshole stretched obscenely wide around that weapon between Alexio’s legs, red and swollen and shiny with lube. He couldn’t see it himself, but he could picture it, all right. Couldn’t  _ stop  _ picturing it. Worse, couldn’t stop picturing  _ Cas  _ picturing it.

“Move,” Alexio whined, but no question it was an order, not with the way his hands gripped at Dean’s waist and started shoving him back, down, until Dean whined too and it was all he could do not to bite Alexio’s tongue. He pulled away, gasped in air, squeezed his eyes closed and made himself . . . just . . .  _ take it _ .

“Yeah,” he panted as Alexio forced his way deeper, because noise was gonna come out of him one way or another, and it was either pretend or mouth off. And while the last fucking thing he wanted was Alexio’s hands on his dick, if they were there, then at least Alexio couldn’t keep using them to shove Dean down onto  _ his  _ dick. So he added, “Yeah, come on, touch me,” and sure enough, Alexio let up the death grip on his waist, one hand moving to rub a nipple and the other wrapping around his cock.

_ Sam heard you say that. Heard you beg him to get you off. _

And Cas was still obediently staring at them both. No doubt with incredulous horror now, not that Dean could bring himself to check. Head down. Get through it. They’d be free by morning and he could explain then, he could tell them  _ why _ . . .

_ Yeah let’s be honest. You’re never gonna talk about this  _ ever _ , and they’re gonna judge you anyway so what’s the fucking point.  _

All-in it was then. He rocked back with a long, low moan, and finally felt his butt connect with Alexio’s groin. Fully seated. He stayed that way a long moment while the cramping in his gut and the clenching in his ass crested and then eased at least a little, while Alexio toyed with his nipples and did his damndest to get Dean hard again. Dean licked his lips and kept his gaze laser-focused on Alexio’s face so the fucker wouldn’t doubt his commitment or his pleasure, even when he stayed inevitably soft in Alexio’s hand.

Bonus: so he wouldn’t accidentally see the disappointment, the  _ betrayal _ , on Cas’s face.

He tried to convince himself he was just being paranoid as he levered himself up Alexio’s cock on trembling thighs, forced himself back down it again, too slow to be called a proper stroke but hey at least he was moving. Alexio gasped, bucked up into him a little on the downstroke, panted “ _ Yes _ ” and jacked Dean harder.

The pain was unrelenting, but he put on a smile, faked a moan, and did it again. And again, And again. Kept doing it, until it wasn’t just the sweat between them that made the slide easier. Until Dean’s quieting moans of misery could barely be heard over Alexio’s rising moans of ecstasy. Until the pain finally faded to a background hum, easily ignored. 

And then it was only a matter of time until his cock hardened in Alexio’s hand. Until pleasure bloomed so bright it  _ couldn’t  _ be ignored. He made himself stay vocal, not go quiet again like he had the last time, when his silence had sent Alexio into Cas’s cage in a jealous rage. He made himself  _ not think of what Sam was hearing _ . Not think of  _ Cas _ . Eyes on Alexio. Give this fucker the ride of his life and not fight the pleasure zinging through him.

And he was managing okay--he really,  _ really  _ was--right up until  _ Cas  _ moaned. Or, well, something  _ like  _ a moan, anyway, some unidentifiable, uncontrollable sound of misery and arousal and horror and god knew what else.

Dean’s focus shattered, and his eyes shot toward Cas. His rhythm faltered, and it hit him like a fist to the face that he was halfway to coming on Alexio’s cock in front of his angel and his goddamn  _ brother _ .

And obviously Alexio saw the shift because he had, you know,  _ eyes _ , so of course he reached out and grabbed Cas by the throat and drew him right up close between them where there was no way Dean could  _ avoid  _ seeing his face. 

“Do you want to touch him now, hunter?” Cas’s eyes went impossibly wide, then clenched shut when Alexio shook him. “ _ Do you _ ?”

“No,” Cas gasped. Eyes still squeezed closed. Fists clenched at his sides. Dean froze too, held his breath, couldn’t think what to do or say to disarm the situation and absolutely fucking sideswiped by the  _ hurt  _ at Cas’s answer, at the honesty he could read there clear as day. Cas really  _ didn’t  _ want to touch him. Why the fuck not? Was he  _ dirty  _ to Cas now? Weak? Shameful? Didn’t Cas know Dean was doing this for  _ him _ ?

Alexio shook Cas again with that steel-trap grip on his throat. “Liar.” He turned his accusing eyes to Dean, who’d frozen on top of him, and glared, “Tell this filthy liar he can never have you.”

Dean couldn’t quite look at Cas as he said, “You can never have me.” Worried it wasn’t convincing enough (prayed that it wasn't  _ too  _ convincing), so he added, “I’m his. I love  _ him _ .”

But Alexio hadn’t let go of Cas’s throat, so when he demanded, “Now show him.  Come for me, beloved. Come on  _ my  _ cock,” Dean started moving again in earnest. Honed in on the pleasure, sought it out, chased it with the angle of his hips and the pace of his movements. Alexio had stopped touching him, but with that massive pressure building inside him, the relentless rub of that fat cock against his prostate, he suspected he wouldn’t even need it. Closed his eyes, let his head hang, let himself use the fantasy of Cas like he had before, of Cas beneath him, Cas inside him, Cas stroking his thighs and chest and face and telling him he loved him, needed him, owned him and belonged to him all at once. He sped up, faster, faster, chasing that feeling, chasing that emotion like this might be the last time he’d ever get to have it, and it built and built and  _ built  _ until he couldn’t stand it anymore, couldn’t even  _ hope  _ to contain it, and his orgasm ripped out of him with a pleasure so keen it was almost pain, and--

And he opened his eyes, and saw Alexio’s feral grin beneath him and Alexio’s arm extended and Alexio’s hand still gripping Cas’s throat, and realized he’d come untouched on that rapist fucker’s cock and Cas had  _ seen it all _ , had heard the pleasured moans, seen the rapture on Dean’s face, seen his come striping all the way up that hairy chest as he rocked and trembled his way through the shocks and aftershocks. Realized that Cas had no way of knowing Dean’d been thinking of  _ him  _ the whole time.

No wonder Cas’s face looked so dead and blank. No wonder his fists were still balled by his sides.

Alexio let go of Cas, shoved him away to grab Dean by the waist and flip them, because while Dean was sick enough to have gotten his rocks off already, of course Alexio was still hard as a goddamn baseball bat inside him. Dean ended up on his back with his knees shoved to his shoulders, Alexio between his spread legs, humping away like a dog in heat. Fucker didn’t seem to have anything left to prove to Cas, which was a damn good thing because Dean was so hypersensitive that this had gone from breathtaking pleasure to straight-up agony in like half a second, and it was all he could do to throw his good arm up over his eyes and set his jaw and keep his misery to himself until Alexio finished.

Which thankfully only took a minute or two, though the fucker bit Dean’s shoulder when he came--human teeth, at least, despite the very lion-like roar erupting from his throat. He stilled inside Dean at last, let Dean’s legs flop back to the bed and dropped heavily on top of him, panting and dripping sweat. Which Dean might’ve been more grossed out about if the fucker’s cock wasn’t still lodged inside him.

When Alexio could talk again, his first words were to Cas, not Dean. “Do you understand now, hunter?” he rumbled, and Dean was forced to remember all over again that Cas was standing  _ right fucking there, watching everything. _

“Yes.” Cas’s voice was absolutely flat, even more of a monotone than it’d been when they’d first met all those years ago. “I understand.”

Alexio brushed a lazy kiss across Dean’s chest, reached down to pull the covers up over their still-joined bodies. “Good. Leave us be, then. Go back to your room. Close the door.”

Cas didn’t need to be asked twice. He walked away, closed the cell door behind him with a clang loud enough to make Dean startle. Dean tracked him all the way across his cell and back to his own bed, where he sat down numbly, hands unclenched at last, resting on his bare thighs. Then he seemed to think the better of it and laid down, pulled the covers up to his chin and closed his eyes.

Dean turned his own eyes back to the 250-pound weight currently crushing him. He shoved at Alexio’s shoulder, way too tired and beaten down to keep the ruse going any longer. “Dude, get off, I can’t breathe.” Not to mention that Alexio’s cock--stupidly huge even when soft--was still jammed up Dean’s ass, which was now gross and slimy not just with lube but also monster splooge.

But Alexio, ever the most selfish and inconsiderate ass in existence, was already fast asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY BUBBLES NOW IT'S THREE (3) CHAPTERS ;-P


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeeeeeeeeeeey still not dead *finger guns* Have 3000 new word that I hope will have been worth the wait! God knows they did not come easy (or fast, so sorry!). Love you all! *mwah!*

“Seriously, I mean it.” Dean slapped lightly at Alexio’s cheek until bleary eyes met his. Christ, this fucker slept  _ deep _ . Which was good to know for later, but pretty damn inconvenient right now. “You’re crushing me, man, come on, roll over.”

“Hmph,” Alexio mumbled, but he slid off--and out of--Dean, then lampreyed up beside him, throwing an arm and a leg over Dean and pillowing his head on Dean’s chest. 

Dean’s ass throbbed insistently, and the oozy grossness down there suddenly felt ten times worse, but at least Alexio wasn’t inside him anymore. Unfortunately, there was no way Dean would be able to extricate himself from this new position without waking Alexio again. 

“Hey,” he said gently, forcing himself to place a kiss on the crown of Alexio’s head. “You been so good to me all evening, I just kinda wanna hold you, you know?” 

Alexio lifted his head to meet Dean’s eyes, huffed a breathy little noise that spoke of all the surprise and affection and joy showing on his face. Dean couldn’t wait to carve it right the fuck off. 

“So how about you roll over and let me be the big spoon tonight?”

A slow, sleepy smile spread across Alexio’s face, and then he kissed Dean’s chin and rolled onto his side. The memory of Cas doing the same, letting Dean press close and curl around him and hold him as they slept, choked him up for a second, but he forced it down. He couldn’t think about Cas while he was spooning with Alexio. Couldn’t let Alexio taint that memory.

So of course Alexio grabbed a spare pillow and held it to his stomach and carefully maneuvered Dean’s busted hand to rest half over Alexio’s waist, half on the pillow. Just like Cas had done.

“Comfortable, beloved?”   


Both his hand and his new tap wound hurt like a motherfucker, his ass was still throbbing, and every single square inch of his skin was clammy and crawling with fire ants where it touched Alexio’s, but he made himself nuzzle against Alexio’s shoulder and hum an affirmative. It seemed to satisfy, because moments later, Alexio’s breathing steadied and deepened into sleep.

Dean did not sleep. God knew he wanted to, but no way could he risk not waking up in time. So he lay in the dark, letting his eyes adjust to the light thrown off by the clock, the power buttons on the speakers and cameras, the crack under the door to the hall. Kept silent and vigilant, listening for sounds of rousing from either Alexio or Cas. When he heard none after half an hour, he figured it’d been long enough; he slowly withdrew his arm from Alexio’s waist and eased away from him . . . at least as far as he could in the overcrowded bed, which unfortunately wasn’t very far. Then he eased out from under the covers, careful not to disturb Alexio’s three-quarters of the blankets, and sat up.

On the plus side, Alexio didn’t stir at all, not even at the loss of body heat against his back. But on the fuck-my-life side, Dean couldn’t work the sword out from under the mattress. He’d hidden it as close to the edge as he’d dared--practically right up against the bars separating the two cages--and while he’d gotten Alexio close enough to the opposite edge to not be lying on top of it, the two of them combined were still taking up so much space that Dean couldn’t lift the mattress enough. Only way to get the sword was to get out of bed. And even as deeply as Alexio slept, what were the odds of him sleeping through Dean climbing over him?

_ Shit _ .

Okay. Okay. Plan B. Holding his breath the whole time, Dean inchwormed his way down to the foot of the bed and eased carefully off the end of it. Alexio stirred at the movement of the mattress, and Dean froze, bare feet cold on the tile floor, breath still held, waiting for Alexio to settle again. 

When he finally did, Dean let the air out of his lungs, just stood there and  _ breathed  _ for a second. Realized his heart was beating so fast he felt lightheaded, and though his muscles itched with the need to keep moving, he forced himself to stand there until he calmed a little. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. Alexio slept on.

_ Enough. Go.  _

He tiptoed around the bed, aiming for the head, where he could hopefully slide the sword out from under the mattress now that he wasn’t on it. But he only made it three steps before freezing again at a sleepily mumbled, “Dean?”

_ Shit! _

And wow, seriously, if he’d thought his heart was beating hard before, he’d been wrong. “Just, uh.” The words came out whisper-soft, not because he didn’t want to wake Alexio further but because he literally could not control his diaphragm. He swallowed, tried to breathe, to  _ think _ . “I, uh. I gotta piss. Go back to sleep, I’ll be right there.”

Alexio seemed to buy that--and why not, it was a perfectly reasonable thing to do in the middle of the night--and closed his eyes again. But just in case he hadn’t dropped right back off, Dean headed to his little bathroom setup instead. Pissed, as advertised. Took the opportunity to clean up the mess Alexio had left all over (and in) him. He was still skirting the edge of panic, but he was glad for the moment nonetheless. For one thing, it was actually pretty fucking distracting to feel that goop sliding around inside him with every step he took. And just as importantly, he definitely did not want Sam to find him with monster jizz leaking down his legs. Bad enough Sam had heard the act that’d put it there--he didn’t need to  _ see  _ it, too.

Dean had been out of bed a good five minutes by the time he’d finished pissing and scrubbing, and now he was washing his one good hand (super awkward, by the way, to wash one hand without the other one) and hoping enough time had gone by for Alexio to fall back into a deep sleep.

So  _ of course  _ that was when the bed creaked the noisy creak of a giant testing its weight limit. Miraculously, Dean didn’t startle, even as his stomach leapt straight past his throat and into his fucking head. He just kept washing his hand as footsteps sounded on the tile behind him, as arms circled around his waist and hairy skin pressed to his back.

Thank god Dean’s body was six or eight steps ahead of his brain, because somehow he found himself leaning back into the embrace, turning off the water and drying his hand on the towel draped over the sink and cupping Alexio’s arm.

Fuck.  _ Fuck _ . What the fuck was he supposed to do now?

Alexio kissed Dean’s head. “Go back to bed, beloved. I’ll join you in a moment.”

Then Alexio stepped up to the toilet, and Dean realized this was an  _ opportunity _ , not a problem. He headed back to the bed, freed his sword under cover of Alexio’s noisy stream, and crawled into bed with it. 

He was lying on his back, sword hilt gripped right through his dirty old shirt, before Alexio had finished washing his hands.

He could do this. He could  _ do  _ this.

. . . Could minotaurs smell fear?

The water shut off. Dean closed his eyes and pretended at sleep with all the years of skill he’d honed sharing a room with his father and brother. Heard the rustle of the towel as Alexio dried his hands. Tracked the heavy shuffle of Alexio’s bare feet on the tile, praying his stinky old shirt would be enough to hide the scent of the bronze. 

One step. Two. Three. Alexio’s stride was massive; he was almost here now. A fourth, right beside the bed. Dean kept utterly lax, waited for that final step as Alexio brought his rear foot forward. Waited to feel the blankets shift as Alexio reached down to pull them back . . .

And lurched up, eyes open and covers flung back, to drive the sword straight through Alexio’s heart.

The moment of silence that followed was the single longest moment of Dean’s entire life.

Dean couldn’t  _ quite  _ make out all of Alexio’s features in the near-dark, but there was no missing the shining whites of his shock-wide eyes, the open slackness of his jaw, the stunned surprise in his frozen muscles. For a moment, he didn’t even seem to realize what’d happened. 

“Dean?” Alexio’s voice was tight, disbelieving. His eyes tracked to his chest, down the shirt-wrapped sword sticking out of it, to Dean’s left hand, fisted tight and trembling around the hilt. “What . . .”

Dean rolled onto his knees; he needed leverage, needed space to pull the blade out and make with the head-chopping. But Alexio hadn’t straightened up. Couldn’t pull his eyes from Dean’s hand.

“Dean . . .?” he said again, voice just as wounded and confused as before. “What are you . . . I thought . . .” 

Dean leaned up against the hilt and threw all his weight behind it, driving it deeper in the hopes of driving Alexio backward. Success: the fucker made a noise like a beached whale and stumbled one small step, two,  _ finally  _ making enough room for Dean to yank the blade out and--

\--mid-swing, five inch-long claws caught his forearm and sunk in deep. Dean screamed, half pain and half furious desperation. He was  _ so fucking close _ , and now . . .

But Alexio didn’t rake his claws down to sever the tendons keeping Dean’s hand fisted on the sword hilt. Just held Dean’s arm still as he backed himself off the blade with his own roar.

Halfway through, he  _ shifted _ , went full-on minotaur. The hand wrapped around his arm was big enough and strong enough now to rip it clean off, but still he didn’t hurt Dean--at least not any more than he already was. 

“But . . .” Alexio pressed his free hand to his bleeding chest, stared at it with wonder as if he  _ still  _ couldn’t believe what had happened. Dean still couldn’t pry his arm free, and the pain of trying nearly blacked him out, but he did at least manage to get off the bed and stand. 

Alexio stared at him for so long that Dean thought they might  _ both  _ bleed out waiting for him to make his next move. Could minotaurs even do that? Bleed to death? God knew he seemed slow and sluggish enough right now, so even if it wouldn’t kill him, it was clearly hurting him. 

At last Alexio said, “But you  _ love  _ me.”

Dean raised his bad hand, and before he could second-guess himself too much, he used it to transfer the sword from his immobilized arm. Miracle of miracles, his fingers obeyed him, but even in the adrenaline-fueled grip of battle fever, he almost faltered at the spike of agony it caused.

He didn’t, though. Didn’t hesitate for a second. And since  _ he  _ had no compunctions about severing  _ Alexio’s  _ tendons, and he did just that with one clean swipe. 

Alexio roared again, and so did Dean as he wrenched his good arm free of those now-lax claws. Both of his hands were on fucking  _ fire _ , but he took the sword in his left one again, faced Alexio down.

Alexio was cradling his bleeding arm to his bleeding chest, but he was still on his feet, staring right back. They were both ass naked, and it wasn’t even fucking  _ weird  _ to Dean after all this time, and that just pissed him off even more.

Dean spat at him. “I’m a  _ hunter _ , you stupid sack of shit. I  _ never  _ loved you. I never even  _ liked  _ you.”

Amazingly, that seemed to wound Alexio worse than the sword had. He slumped in on himself, face crumpling into shadows in the semi-dark. Somehow managed to make himself look  _ small _ , despite being in beast mode and nearly as wide as he was tall. 

His whispered “But . . .” was wetter, breathier than before; was he  _ crying _ ?

“But  _ nothing _ , you rapist fuck.” Dean advanced a step, raised the sword, and though it felt like a fifty-pound weight now in his gore-streaked hand, he swung with everything he had toward that massive minotaur neck--

And his soft fucking sword and weak fucking body both failed him; the damn blade caught on Alexio’s spine and stuck there, not quite halfway through.

_ Shit _ .

Alexio roared. 

So did Dean. 

And then they both jolted into motion: Dean tried to leverage the sword out for a second swing as Alexio’s hands flailed out, uncoordinated and ineffective, batting at Dean’s bleeding arm. But the damn sword was  _ stuck _ , which meant the only way out was through. And for that he needed two hands and all his body weight and then some. 

But this time he couldn’t make the fingers on his right hand grip the hilt, so he grit his teeth and just  _ pushed _ with it even as he pulled with the left one, dizzy with pain and effort and blood loss and the damn sword wasn’t budging and Alexio’s flailing claws were digging burning gouges down Dean’s arms, shoulders, chest, and then one massive hand found Dean’s own and  _ squeezed _ , and Dean went from shouting to  _ screaming  _ as every half-healed bone crunched and compressed and ground together in that iron grip and blackness flooded the edges of his vision and he was on his knees, he was  _ failing _ , Alexio was gonna kill him and then he’d kill Cas and Dean was too damn weak to stop it and--

And then Alexio’s head--Alexio’s  _ severed  _ head--rolled across his field of vision, and that torturous pressure on his hand fell away as Alexio’s body thumped to the ground, and when Dean could breathe again and lift his head he looked up to see  _ Cas _ , human Cas in all his furious angelic glory, chest heaving and bloodied sword at the ready in both hands.

“Cas?” Dean asked, still not quite convinced he wasn’t hallucinating or maybe dead.

But then Cas dropped the sword and fell to his knees beside Dean and gathered him into his arms with the most plaintive, desperate “ _ Dean! _ ” Dean had ever heard.

Dean wanted to throw his arms around Cas, but he couldn’t lift either one of them quite yet, so he just leaned into Cas and let his angel take his weight while he focused on breathing, on realizing this was  _ real _ . And when he finally felt strong enough, he tilted his head up to ask Cas how he’d gotten through a locked cage door, but then Cas was kissing him breathless all over again and the words ran right out of Dean’s head.

Dean never wanted Cas to pull back, but he knew he had to; Dean was maybe kind of bleeding to death, after all, going into shock at the very least, and Sammy was . . . well, Sam would be bursting in any second now. Worst of all, Alexio didn’t quite . . . seem to be dead yet? The body was twitching beside them, and the head . . . Alexio was  _ staring  _ at them, mouth open and wide eyes utterly betrayed. Fucking creepy, Jesus.

Cas must’ve realized all that because he gently disentangled himself, hands still firm on Dean’s shoulders to keep him from toppling, and gave him a careful once-over.

“How’d . . .” Dean managed as Cas studied him, one eye on his angel and one on Alexio’s twitching not-corpse.

Cas’s gaze slid toward Alexio, then back to Dean. “I saved the empty blister packs from my antibiotics and hid them under my pillow. When I saw what Alexio meant to do, I grabbed one in each hand before he could drag me away.” Ah, well, that explained why Cas had flailed for his pillow then, why his hands had been fisted the entire time. Maybe even why Cas hadn’t wanted to touch him when Alexio was . . . was . . . “When he sent me back to my cell, I slid one into the lock plate so the bolt couldn’t catch.” He turned toward Alexio with a downright triumphant sneer and added, “The door  _ looked  _ closed, but it wasn’t, not really.”

_ My angel. My absolute fucking brilliant angel _ .

“Can you stand?” Cas asked.

Dean nodded, because Alexio needed finishing and Dean damn well meant to be the one to do it. 

Sam burst in as Cas was helping Dean to his feet, bright light spilling in from the hallway illuminating the weapon in his hand, his heaving chest, the wildness in his eyes that didn’t calm until they landed on Dean and Cas. 

“Holy shit,” he breathed, and it occurred to Dean that Sam had probably left the baby monitor in the car, probably had no idea how the fight had gone down until right this moment. It also occurred to Dean how awful he must look, but never mind that, because he had shit to do.

“M’okay, Sam. We’re okay. I just, I gotta . . .”

Cas, bless him, knew Dean well enough to guess how that sentence was supposed to end; without letting go of Dean, he bent to retrieve a sword and pressed it into Dean’s less-bad hand, then walked Dean the five feet over to where Alexio’s head had settled.

Those big, betrayed eyes followed them the whole way, fixing on Dean’s face as Dean loomed over him. 

Dean glared right back. “Just in case all this”--he waved with the sword toward Alexio’s body--“wasn’t clear enough? Lemme show you what I  _ really  _ think of you.”

He shuffled toward the body, and Cas followed, solid and supporting. Once Dean was within reach, he firmed his grip on the sword and growled, “I hope you can still feel this, you son of a bitch.” And then he sliced Alexio’s penis off at the root.

Dean would never understand how a severed head could scream like that, what with the lungs lying five feet away, but what he  _ did  _ know was that it was the single most satisfying sound he had ever and would ever hear.

And the most satisfying thing he had ever or would ever do? Was limping back over to that screaming head and shutting it up for good by stabbing it right through its fugly face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No actual end note. Just giving Bubbles a heart attack ;-p

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover Art for 'The Bone Eater' by metarachel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13772208) by [intheinterim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/intheinterim/pseuds/intheinterim)




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